


five things peter loses in apartment 335B

by peculiarblue



Category: Spider-Man: Homecoming (2017)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Neighbors, Domestic Fluff, F/M, Future Fic, betty and peter being bffs because i said so, do i love michelle jones more than peter parker?, kind of like a 5 plus one but not really, manifest it, peter parker being a lovesick idiot, probably not but i'm close, set up like a note peter writes for ned to go with his housewarming gift, so domestic, will die for spideychelle
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-10
Updated: 2019-06-10
Packaged: 2020-04-24 07:54:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 39,374
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19169005
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/peculiarblue/pseuds/peculiarblue
Summary: and one thing he finds(alternatively: peter falling head over heels in love with the pretty girl in 335A, as told by things he loses living in 335B)





	five things peter loses in apartment 335B

**Author's Note:**

> so here's the thing... this is a literal novel and a half that took 12 years off my life writing it... and i could have posted this in 5 chapters... but its all written out so like, why should i make you all wait for it... bookmark it and take breaks after each section if you want idc it is what it is at this point im a crack addict who writes 40k fics to relax
> 
> in case its not clear: the format is peter writing the note to go with a housewarming gift for ned, who is moving into his new apartment with betty (hence, why peter had to live alone, meet mj, so the story goes). the actual story happens between the numbered list.
> 
> anything written/texts: italics is peter, italics AND bold is mj
> 
> we acknowledge peter is spider-man in this story but like... we also don't really acknowledge it. it's not that important to the plot it just made for some funny jokes but in case u were wondering.
> 
> side note: i had so many ideas but am not /that/ insane yet, so stayed tuned for a part 2!!!!! 
> 
> this story isn't gay at all but happy pride month! and happy euphoria month for my z stans! and happy less than one month til ffh!
> 
> enjoy!

 

_Ned,_

 

_Congrats on the new place dude! I think this might mean we’re actual adults now…_

_Since half of this gift is from Aunt May too (who wants to make sure I add in a line about how much she loves you and that she’s so proud of you and more mushy stuff I can’t bear to write because it only further solidifies the fact that she likes you better than her own nephew! But I’m not bitter at all…), she insisted we buy you something practical. So, I hope you like the frying pan. And the pots. I didn’t think you needed two different sizes but, the more space for pasta, the better, I guess?_

_But don’t worry, I secretly filled them both with gifts from me when May wasn’t looking. In the spirit of gifting you practical, adult-world things though—the sour gummy worms are sugar free and I don’t think anything screams ‘I’m an adult living on my own with a significant other’ more than a full set of matching socks. Even if they have science puns on them._

_Anyway, I know you’ve been living with Betty for a while now, so the only thing new is the actual apartment you’re in, and you are undoubtedly the ** ~~second~~** greatest (THAT WAS MJ IGNORE HER!) couple to ever exist, and I am undoubtedly the last person that should be giving advice, but that’s what I’m about to attempt. **don’t listen to him, toss this and read the note in my gift! Also, trash those science socks while you’re at it, Peter has them too and I’ve threatened to dump him 6 times every day he wears them. i love y—**_

_Okay, now that I’ve officially hidden all pens from MJ’s sight as she stands behind me and watches everything I write over my shoulder because she’s avoiding washing the bowls in the sink from breakfast (she wants me to tell you it’s my bowl from breakfast and she already washed the mug she used this morning so she’s not moving), I can properly start._

_A few months ago, our lease was up, as you probably remember, and Betty’s wasn’t, so you made the bold and very adult-world decision to move in with her and leave me to fend for myself. Obviously, I knew we couldn’t live together forever, even though that still sounds like the dream. Side note: I hope you understand the beating I’m getting from MJ’s ~~tiny~~ **powerful** fists (she keeps trying to steal my pen now, sorry) right now for suggesting you’d be the better roommate. But dude, living with you was epic. I mean, I really didn’t think it could get better than living with my best friend. _

_You probably remember helping me find the dumb little apartment a few blocks from where you were going to stay with Betty. An apartment on the third floor, room 335B, all the way at the very end of the hallway with that awful potted plant against the wall (the one that looked like the bigger version of the plant we accidentally killed in an AP Bio project) between my door and 335A across the hall. And I was terrified. I knew nothing about living on my own. I didn’t realize until I was standing outside my door, having locked myself out of my own apartment on only day 3 of living there, just how very not-alone I’ve always been. And suddenly I was no longer not-alone._

_I don’t know why I’m rehashing the entire plot of me moving out when you very much lived it with me, probably just for completeness of this note. And I really don’t mean to get all sentimental on you, saving that for my best man speech whenever you—shit, don’t let Betty read this. And if she does, I know nothing. And I’m totally not hiding the ring right now._

_But at first, I thought I had lost all the things that made my life cool._

_But, it’s been a hell of a year, I’m alive and breathing and not living off Pop-Tarts and Gatorade, **THANKS TO ME** and most importantly, you’re still my best friend in the whole entire world, so I know I didn’t lose anything._

_Well, not anything. That’s actually what the point of this whole thing is. You and I both know some of the things I’m awful at: keeping secrets, playing ‘Operation’, not falling asleep in English class (thank god I haven’t been back to an English class in years). But what I never knew I was so bad at was keeping track of things. I lost so many things—keys, ties, a shoe, you name it. Whatever household object you can think of, it probably got lost somewhere in the black hole that I’m sure exists somewhere in 335B._

_So that’s why the best piece of advice I can give you as you settle into the first apartment you own in the adult-world and not as a broke college graduate living with your best friend, more valuable than any frying pan or sugar-free gummy worms, is a list of all the things you will probably lose at some point or another. I speak from real experience. We don’t know if you’re susceptible to losing things like I apparently am until you’re on your own (with Betty), so here are a few of the things you should probably keep an eye on…_

_1\. Your keys_

“You know where the laundry room is, right?”

“Yes.”

“Have you done laundry yet?”

“It’s been two days—”

“ _Three_ , and I know you only own one pair of clean socks so…”

Peter places his phone on the edge of the counter and can still make out May’s muffled voice as he picks up a red tie and slings it around his neck. He laughs lightly to himself as she continues to lecture him on his housekeeping skills, pointedly ignoring her constant pestering in his 2x2 bathroom she’d be very disappointed in already, the mirror barely big enough to capture all of his early morning mess of hair.

He taps the screen once to put May on speaker before making his hands busy tying around his neck.

“—And that’s what happens when you forget to wash your dish towel.”

“Thanks for the advice,” he hums.

“Alright, I know you didn’t listen to a word I just said, young man. Keep the sass to yourself,” May says, and Pater laughs leaning forward on the edge of his sink, pushes a lopsided piece of hair off his forehead.

“I’m not sassing you, I was thanking you for the advice!”

“Did you brush your teeth this morning?”

“I’m not 5 years old!”

“Are you sure?” She questions, and Peter picks up the phone, uses his free hand to switch off the light and rounds out of the small bathroom into his similarly small kitchen/living room/dining room situation. Peter seemed to only be able to drop the ‘college kid’ part of ‘broke college kid’ now, and there weren’t too many options available for single people of the broke and roommate-less variety. So, small apartment barely bigger than his college dorm room it was. He guesses he should be thankful at least the bathroom has its own 4 walls.

“I promise you, Aunt May, I’m gonna be fine,” He shrugs the phone under his ear as he grabs his suit jacket off the back of a chair, his non-May-certified plan for keeping it from wrinkling overnight.

“You know you could still move back here,” she says, a plea not unfamiliar to Peter in the past few weeks.

“I couldn’t stay there forever, May.”

“Who says you couldn’t stay forever?” she perks, and Peter laughs as he smooths the sleeves over the edge of his wrists, and heads for the door to pick up his bag.

“I will admit it’s tempting,” he sighs, eyes able to flit around the entire, crappy apartment in one look, sans the bedroom and bathroom (if you could even legally call it that) to his left, then continues into the phone, “But I’d still be moving into the same lousy apartment I’m in right now, just a few years later, and you’d still call me every three seconds to make sure I’m blinking correctly.”

“Are you?”

“Am I what?”

“Blinking correctly?”

“Oh my god, I gotta get to work,” he huffs over May’s sweet laugh on the other end of the line.

“I bet you’re forgetting something and you’re just not going to admit it while I’m on the phone, so I will hang up.”

“You’re a saint.”

“What did I say about the sass?”

“Sorry,” he smiles, “Dinner on Friday night to prove to you I’m alive?”

“You don’t have better plans for a Friday night than dinner with your boring, old Aunt?” Peter turns the handle and swings the faded white door open with a push from his shoulder, “Befriend someone with a nicer apartment than yours. That’s what I did. Didn’t pay for my own place until I was oh, I don’t know, 32.”

“You’re lying,” Peter watches the door click shut before hoisting his bag over his shoulder and starting down the long and poorly-lit hallway to the stairwell. “And what do you mean by _befriend_? Are you encouraging your nephew to be a _gold digger_.”

“I didn’t say that!” she yells, and Peter laughs, opening the door to the stairs and starting down them, “This is the modern world, Peter. I’m not suggesting you sleep with a guy for cash to afford higher rent, I’m just saying— your bathroom looked sketchy as hell and one day you’re going to need to use someone’s shower. And you’re not using mine.”

“What happened to staying with you forever?”

“And who knows…” she continues, a lilt in her voice, “Maybe you’ll fall in love and someone will be your ticket out of the crappy apartment in the first place. Just like Ned.”

“And what happened to you hanging up?”

“Okay, okay, fine. Friday night,” she sighs in mock defeat, and it makes Peter full beam as he hops down the last few stairs, “Have fun at work.”

“Having fun at work is the least adult thing I could possibly do.”

“Fine, have a _miserable_ day, Peter,” she deadpans, then lightly adds, “I love you.”

“Love you more,” Peter echoes fondly before hanging up his phone, slipping it into his pocket and stepping out of the stairwell.

He makes it all of four steps into the lobby before he comes face to face with a fancy floor-to-ceiling window view of torrential downpour hitting the city streets.

And he is so glad May hung up when she did because, as per usual, the woman was right. He forgot something: an umbrella.

He mumbles incoherent curses under his breath as he rapidly looks between the rain outside, the time on his watch, and the stairs back up to his apartment behind him.

How did he even miss that it was raining? Natural selection is coming for him soon, he knows it.

The extra time it would take him to get all the way back up and into his apartment, find an umbrella (that he was sure he had to have somewhere because May would never let him move in without every essential, the problem was he had _no idea_ where it could possibly be inside that tiny hellhole), and run back down would make him late. The walk to work wasn’t far, but he figures running through it in the rain might make it feel slightly closer to a 5k than 5 blocks. Pros and cons considered, including the all-important ‘will rain ruin my hair or is it a lost cause?’ (answer: lost cause), he decides to make the sprint back up to 335B.

The wait for the elevator is always agonizingly slow, so he opts for the stairs, lunging almost two at a time, and making it to the third floor in record time. He throws the stairwell door open and walks briskly down the never-ending hallway. And he’s never hated having the last possible room more than he does in the extra time it takes him to jog there now.

He tucks his chin when he’s a few doors down, reaching a hand into his pocket to rummage for his key, and the distraction does just enough in his frenzy to have him completely unaware of the fact that he’s about to walk right into someone.

And so he does.

Walks right into a full head of messy brown curls on the side of the hallway opposite his door.

“Oh my god, I’m so sorry!” Peter stumbles back, one hand on his chest the other stretched out in front of him, waving off the other person apologetically. His brain runs into overdrive and he starts spewing apologies to her back, still turned away from him, one hand on her door.

“Someone’s had their coffee today,” she quips, finally turning towards Peter, and he swears, every nerve in his body short circuits at the exact same moment.

He is 100% positive her deep brown eyes glitter, and that her half-crooked grin was hand chosen by a higher power to teach his lungs how to stop doing their job. She’s tall, dark brown hair cascading over her shoulders, a sharp black jacket shrugged on like she knows she was put on this earth to make everyone’s heart pitter patter and she doesn’t even have to try. She has the striking ability to make Peter simultaneously want to hold her hand, and crawl in a corner embarrassed he’s even breathing the same air as someone so… perfect. That is, if he was breathing right now, gaping at her, which, he is decidedly not.

And all the while he blinks maybe twice, remembers to close his slack jaw, and she keeps smiling that awfully wonderful smile.

“You okay?” she lifts an eyebrow, and the motion, though small, does something to jumpstart Peter’s nonexistent brain activity and uncoil his melted insides, as he shakes his head and mutters, “Uh, yes, yeah, fine. Thank you.”

“I didn’t do anything.”

“Well, you asked how I was,” Peter rocks back on his heels and silently dives head first into a pit of mortification, “Though I was the one to run into you, so, again, I’m sorry.”

“No worries, I’m used to it. People walk into me all the time.”

“Really?”

“No,” she says flatly, but when she notices Peter’s tiny gasp, it elicits another smile, “I just wanted you to feel better. You look like my dog when I yell at him for eating my shoe like it’s a four-course meal.”

Peter lets out one breathy laugh, nervously looking down at his shoes, “Sorry, I uh, just in a rush. Don’t want to be late for work. Forgot something,” he points to his door behind him and takes one tentative step back, eyes still on pretty-mystery-neighbor.

“What’d you forget? To brush your hair?”

Peter stops abruptly, cocks his head to the side, and bites his bottom lip in what he hopes appears as annoyance, and not at all to do with the smile he’s fighting from watching her hair bounce over her shoulder in a loud laugh.

“I’m kidding, sorry, that was rude, had to balance out me trying to be nice to you before,” she juts a thumb to her side to signal their previous exchange, her other hand still holding her door open.

“I worked hard on my hair,” Peter shrugs, even though he knows he didn’t. But he has an overwhelming sense of needing this girl to believe that.

“I’m sure you did.”

There’s a brief pause, a pause in which Peter is sure is his cue to turn, unlock his door, run around his apartment looking for an umbrella, and leave, never seeing pretty-mystery-neighbor ever again after his painfully awkward attempt at talking to her.

But something in him decides to say, “I forgot an umbrella.”

She answers quicker than Peter had expected, a slight lift in her tone, “It’s raining?”

“Cats and dogs.”

“That was awful,” she smirks, nodding at him, then turns to face the inside of her apartment, saying, “Damn, yeah, it’s raining. God, how’d I miss that?”

Peter decides this must really be when the moment is over, her whole body pitched back into the apartment, so he turns to start for his door.

But within seconds, he feels something poke the back of his shoulder. He spins around and is met face-to-face with the end of a long black umbrella, pointed directly at him.

“For you, Mr. Bad Hair Day.”

Peter blinks at the umbrella, glances between it and the girl holding it out for him.

“Uh, what—I, no—”

“C’mon, take it and get to work.”

“What about you?” Peter inquires, on hand already wrapped around the umbrella anyway.

“What _about_ me?”

“Don’t you need the umbrella?”

She reaches behind her and grabs another umbrella, where she responsibly keeps it tucked by her door (May would be so proud of her), “I like to be overprepared.”

Peter shrugs and smiles, fiddling with the slick umbrella handle he holds in way of trying to show some thanks, “You really don’t have to, you just met me—”

“I’m not worried. Plus, I know where you live.”

“How do you—”

She points at the door behind him.

“Right, right, clumsy new neighbor with the bad hair. That’s me,” he chuckles awkwardly, but there is nothing awkward about the bright smile she shines back at him. He extends a free hand “I’m Peter, by the way.”

“I like Bad Hair Day better,” she quirks, making no move to shake his hand, so he slides it into his back pocket, hoping she didn’t notice. “Now go, I don’t wanna hear the landlord yelling outside my door when you can’t pay rent because you got fired for being late,” she nods down the opposite end of the hallway and Peter hops on his feet once before starting off, trying to stop whatever crazy magnetic force she’s got emanating from her eyes.

“Thank you again, uh,” he starts, then furrows his brows, calls down the hallway, “Sorry, I don’t think I caught your name?”

“I didn’t throw it,” she smiles, “Be nice to my umbrella, and if you quote any Rhianna lyrics when you give it back, I’ll report you.”

Peter forgets how in a rush he was for a minute, takes his time backing down the hallway, humming _Umbrella_ with a theatrical bop of his head and swing of his still closed umbrella that makes her head shake and curls fly, so prominent in his field of vision even from plenty of feet away.

Screw it, he thinks, finally picking up the pace once he finds himself scurrying down the three flights of stairs again, he can think of much worse ways to go.

* * *

The problem is, Peter is sure the worst way he could possibly go will probably occur when he tries to return the umbrella.

No one teaches you how to return a borrowed umbrella to the scarily pretty neighbor you just met this morning that also happens to think you have bad hair (no he’s not letting it go, thank you very much).

He agonized over it all day. The possibilities perturbed him longer than he actually spent using said umbrella.

There are exactly two people Peter would call in these situations: Ned and May.

There are exactly two people Peter is absolutely _not_ going to call in this situation: Ned and May.

He gets out of work pretty late for a Monday night, usually he runs out of there the minute he can, but he’s been stalling on account of the fact he wants to do anything other than walk back to 335B and figure out what to do with the long black umbrella that’s been controlling his life the past 8 hours. Maybe he could sleep on it, yeah, he could very plausibly work out a story about getting home late, not wanting to wake her, some lame excuse like that, which will buy him the night to come up with a better plan.

The most Peter move would be to just leave it outside her door with a note.

Which is totally a cop-out, but realistically, it’s definitely the safest and most Peter approach to the situation.

He decides, on his walk out of work, that he’ll stall some more by stopping to pick up some take-out Thai food for dinner. He justifies it by reminding himself he and Ned got take-out almost every Monday to reward themselves for getting through the most awful day of the week. It’s just a tradition he’s keeping alive, that’s all. And if it helps him avoid returning the umbrella, so be it.

He has just placed his order and settled into a chair by the front of the store to wait to pick it up when a familiar face pushes the door open and beams when she spots him.

“Peter!”

“Hey, Betty,” Peter stands, placing his bag and umbrella on the seat behind him, and reaches out to hug her.

“Take-out Mondays still happening at your place?” she smiles, shutting her dripping umbrella at her side.

“Well, you know what they say, everyone hates cooking on Mondays,” Peter shrugs, hands in his pockets.

“That’s not a saying at all, only you and Ned hate cooking on Mondays. I just don’t know how to say ‘no’ to Thai,” she rolls her eyes fondly, “But I am oddly sentimental seeing you here right now.”

“How’s everything over there?”

“Oh please, I know you and Ned have some weird telepathy thing where you can read each other’s minds and you know more about me living with Ned than I know about me living with Ned.”

Peter laughs, “You’re not wrong.”

“I’m never wrong, Peter,” she eyes him, then moves towards the counter, “Let me order before your best friend cries that it took me too long to get us food.”

Peter waves her on, then returns to his seat by the window, bag over one shoulder and black umbrella burning a hole in the hand that holds it in front of him.

Within a few minutes, Betty joins him by the window in the next seat over, and Peter realizes, she really is never wrong. _She_ would be the exact person who would know what to do with a borrowed umbrella.

“Hey, Betty, I have a question,” he starts, turning his head towards her.

“I have an answer,” she replies, smirking over at him.

“If someone borrowed something from you, how would you want them to give it back?”

“That seems like an oddly specific question,” she laughs, but Peter’s eyes stay trained on hers, and she coughs, “Oh, you’re serious. Okay, uh, they could just hand it back to me, say thank you. that’s it.”

“But what if it’s something really important, and this person slightly terrifies you?” Peter edges on.

“What did you borrow, someone’s kidney? I thought we were talking about you borrowing a coworker’s pencil or something!”

“No, no, nothing like that,” Peter leans back and shakes his head.

“Just tell me what you borrowed.”

“An umbrella,” Peter sighs in defeat, eyes glancing down at the culprit in his hands.

“Why do you look like you just saw a ghost, Pete, it’s an umbrella,” Betty says, one hand on his shoulder, eyes also finding the umbrella he holds, “A _nice_ umbrella, damn. Who did you get this from? And wait—why don’t you have an umbrella of your own, I have an extra I can give—”

“It’s no one important. And I definitely have one somewhere, I was just in a rush this morning, it’s a long story.”

“I have time…”

“I have about 5 minutes until my food is ready.”

“Then I have 5 minutes. Spill,” she says pointedly. “C’mon, _bro code_!’

“You’re not my bro,” Peter scoffs.

“Ned and I are like this,” she holds up two fingers twisted together, “Which officially makes me your bro by association! So, _spill_.”

Peter bounces his left leg in his seat under the watchful eye of Betty, and damn, though he does love her, he realizes he made the right call not moving in with both Ned and her when their lease was up. Woman has _daggers_.

“It’s the girl that lives across the hall,” he sighs, and Betty squeals, the hand on his shoulder squeezing and her feet tapping wildly.

“Oh my god, you _like_ her!”

“What? No, I talked to her for like, 3 minutes, I don’t even know her name. And, how did you get that I like her from one sentence?” Peter squirms but laughs lightly as Betty continues her squeal.

“Peter, you literally look like you saw an _angel_.”

The image of her, smirking at him under those long lashes and wild hair comes to mind right then, so, he can’t really help It when he dreamily sighs, “I think I did.”

Betty’s squeals could be heard from 335B at this rate.

“Peter, tell me everything right now, I don’t care how long we have to sit here, I’ll buy your food,” she chatters.

“There’s nothing to tell,” he swats her off nervously, a smile still playing at his lips that betrays him, and she echoes, “I just ran into her this morning when I was running back to my apartment to get an umbrella, and since her door was already open, she let me borrow one of hers.”

“Buy her flowers.”

“What?” it’s Peter’s turn to squeal at Betty’s wild, and all-too-quick suggestion.

“Everyone likes flowers, it’s practically the number one romantic gesture ever.”

“What if she doesn’t want it to be romantic and then I’m just making everything super awkward and I can never show my face in the building again?”

“Stop being dramatic, she’ll love them,” Betty sighs, leaning back into her chair like she’s got the whole thing figured out, “It shows you went out of your way to thank her just like she went out of her way to help you this morning when she clearly didn’t have to. It’s super sweet, not too over the top, you can write a cute note on the little card the florist gives you with them, and if it seems like she’s not into it, it’s super easy to play off like it’s just a welcome-to-the-building gift from the new kid on the floor. Super platonic.”

Okay, maybe she _did_ have it all figured out.

“A super platonic gift of _flowers_ I bought only for her?”

“I will personally help you purchase bouquets to leave on every doorstep in your building if we have to, but I am almost positive that won’t be necessary.”

“And what makes you so sure?”

“Because you’re Peter Parker!” she nudges the side on his arm lightly, “You have more charm in your pinky finger than the rest of us mere mortals have in our entire bodies.”

He sighs loudly against the back of his seat, tapping the black umbrella on the floor beneath him. They call his name signaling his order is ready and he stands quickly to retrieve it.

And in the time it takes him to get from the counter back to Betty, something in him decides (probably something to do with the daggers he felt on his back the entire time), flowers it is.

“I’m gonna go buy the flowers.”

Betty jumps up to meet him, cheering through her grinning teeth, “Go get ‘em, Parker.”

“Yeah, yeah, enjoy your Take-out Monday,” he waves as he takes a step towards the door, already moving to open the most talked-about umbrella to ever exist. “Tell Ned I said hi.”

“Tell him yourself, telepathy nerds!” Betty calls as he moves out the door, two fingers tapping the side of her forehead with a smirk.

He’s in and out of the flower shop in less than 7 minutes because if he’s in there any longer he knows he’ll talk himself out of it. He just buys the first pretty bouquet he spots, scribbles something cheesy and Peter-Parker-level charming on the small card, then pops open his (her) umbrella and walks the few remaining blocks home.

He is finally thankful for the tortoise speed elevator, and opts for it for the first time since he’s been in the building for the slow ride up. When he reaches his door, he drops the small bag of take-out and his work bag by the door, then closes up the wet umbrella and holds it with the million-dollar flowers at his side.

The panic kicks in. His brain does that superspeed, let’s throw every single word in the English language at Peter all at once, sort of thing. Does he leave it by the door? Does he knock? If she’s home and he doesn’t knock, she might not see them until the morning, which, in that case, means he could keep them and just give them to her tomorrow morning altogether. Or he could just leave them outside the door and not knock, and if she’s not home from work yet she’ll pick them up when she does get home, and he’ll already be inside so he won’t have to talk to her and royally screw up.

Okay yeah, best option, leave them with a note and go inside. Pretend it didn’t happen until he accidentally runs into her again. Then repeat.

Good plan, Peter.

Or, it _would have been_ a good plan, had he not made the first huge mistake of living on your own: locking your keys inside your apartment.

Peter has just placed the umbrella and flowers perfectly outside 335A’s door, and turns back to his own apartment, ready to go in and stuff his face with Take-out Monday Thai and not think about pretty girls and their umbrellas for the rest of the night, when he feels around his pockets and comes up empty. He pats up and down his torso, his thighs, anywhere he might have stuck the key when he left the building this morning. He bends to file through his bag, leave no place, pocket, or zipper compartment unturned, yet, no key.

The panic kicks in double time now.

Its day 3, he shouldn’t have already done the stupidest thing possible and literally locked himself out of his own apartment. Now that he’s thinking about it, he can see exactly where he left the darn key, can visualize its exact location on the other side of that door in perfect clarity. The only thing stopping him from this side of the door and the other is the lack of the key that he knows is on said other side.

At first, Peter paces. He’s got way too much nervous, jittery energy inside, and he paces side to side in front of his door, back and forth between 335 A and B, stops and stares at the most god-awful potted plant he’s ever seen sitting on the dirty beige wall between the two rooms, at the end of the hallway. He knows the landlord’s got a master key that can open his door, but at the moment he’s 1) way too embarrassed and 2) unsure if there’s any sort of charge for a thing like this and 3) even less sure about whether there is a fine, if he can pay it.

He paces for a little while longer before finally working up the nerve to slump against the wall on the floor, the black umbrella and flowers taunting him out of the corner of his eye, and call the landlord.

He tells Peter it’ll be a little while before he can get someone there to open up the door for him, encourages him to find somewhere comfortable to wait and that he’ll call Peter when his door’s open, and remind him of the solid fee that comes with it all.

Peter hangs up the phone call politely, and has to swear off Take-out Monday for at least two weeks now to make up for it.

He goes stir crazy, sitting there, after just about 10 minutes, and is back up on his feet, this time, attempting to pick the lock open with an old paperclip he found at the bottom of his bag.

He’s hunched over the handle, back to the rest of the hallway, so again, the universe clearly not on his side today, is completely oblivious to one pretty-mystery-neighbor approaching him down the hallway.

“Are you not my new neighbor after all? Or is breaking and entering a hobby of yours?”

Peter turns sharply, dropping the paper clip at the sound of her voice, walking towards their doors at the end of the hallway slowly.

“Uh, no, no, I really do live here,” he mumbles sheepishly, “Just rounding out the unluckiest day in existence by locking myself out.”

She stops in front of him, back to her door, and looks him up and down, before smirking, “Eh, you’re right. I don’t think anyone would break into these shitty apartments just for the hell of it.”

Peter doesn’t breathe, expression still solid as she fidgets with the bag over her shoulder and smirk widens before she laughs, “C’mon I’m kidding, laugh with me, Mr. Hair.”

Peter chuckles halfheartedly, part still terrified of her and part mesmerized. He was sure he had her smile etched into his mind the second he first saw it this morning, but seeing it again proves his memory did not do its brilliance justice.

“You need any help there?” she offers.

“No, I called already, someone’s coming to open it soon,” he says.

She nods silently, her lips pursed, and when she steps back, hears the undeniable crunch of plastic bouquet wrapping under her heel. She turns her shoulders to look down at what’s below her, and Peter knows he was right—there was a worse way to go. And this is it.

“Oh, look at this, I’ve got an admirer.” She hums sarcastically and leans over to pick up the flowers. Peter feels the beads of sweat on his forehead forming.

He stupidly tries to cover up, hands shrugging deep into the hems of his pockets nervously, “Yeah, those were there when I got here. And I just got back so I don’t know—”

“ _Thanks for making my hair the only bad part of today_ ,” she holds up the card to her face and reads loudly, over Peter’s mumbling. This is, indeed, the kind of Peter Parker-charm Betty encouraged and Peter Parker followed through on. Her face is entirely unreadable as she reads the note, and Peter gulps loudly.

“Gee, I wonder who this could be from?” she mocks, tucking the note into her jacket pocket, then holding the flowers up to her face for closer inspection, “Bold statement from a guy who just told me he was having the unluckiest day in existence…”

“Well, I wrote that before I locked myself out of my apartment,” he says, a slight smile forming.

She eyes him over the top of the bouquet, “What were these for, Romeo? Did I agree to go to the prom with you without realizing it?”

“No, I just, wanted to say thank you. It was really nice, what you did for me, considering we just met and—”

“It’s too bad I’m allergic to them,” she shrugs, eyes still on the flowers that she lets drop to her waist.

Peter pales. Panic round three. This was not one of the things Betty had speculated happening to him, and he really had no way out. Good one, Peter, send the pretty girl across the hall into anaphylactic shock! That’ll get you a first date!

He starts to step forward immediately sputtering out apologies, “Oh, my god, I’m so sorry, i—”

And then her stony face cracks into the most ear-splitting grin he’s seen on her, and she picks the flowers back up to her face, “I’m messing with you,” she giggles, shutting her eyes and inhaling the floral scent, “Good work new kid, they’re really pretty.”

Peter lets out the greatest sigh of relief, his exhale coming with one relaxing step back from her as he does, fists unclenched.

And god help his soul if he thought he narrowly escaped full on disaster then, because something in him decides it’s a good time to blurt out, “Well, you’re really pretty.”

One of Peter’s hands instinctively flies up over his mouth and his eyes widen. Barely audible behind his hand he adds, “Shit, did I just say that out loud?”

“You did,” she smirks, hugging the bouquet close to her chest before looking up over at his mortified expression, “But it’s okay, you can get away with stupid shit like that when you’re really pretty too.”

Thank god his hand’s already over his mouth.

“Okay, so, how long are we waiting out here, Bad Hair Day?” She places the bouquet back with the umbrella before her heels click clack and pace over to his side of the hallway.

He follows her, body twisting wildly in shock, his mouth opening and closing for a few seconds with no words coming out before, “Uh, landlord said it might be a while. He’ll call me.”

“Well then, we better get comfortable,” she claps her hands together before leaning against the wall on the left side of the horrible potted plant and sliding down to sit.

“Why are you—”

“It’s your first lock out! Welcome to the team, 335B,” she pats the floor next to her and Peter walks over slowly. Her bright brown eyes peer up at him before he moves to sit on the wall that finishes the corner, and she points at the take-out bag on the floor by his door, “Besides, I’m hungry and whatever that is smelled good from like, 10 feet back.”

Peter, never in his wildest imagination, could have conjured up this specific scenario, and he’s sure Betty couldn’t have either when she suggested he buy the pretty-mystery-neighbor flowers.

“I really appreciate this, but this cannot be better than going inside your warm and cozy apartment that’s literally steps away from us right now.”

“Let’s not get crazy, new kid,” she waves a hand at him, “This ugly plant I’m sitting next to may personally offend me by just existing, but watching your ridiculous curls have a life of their own over your poor, unsuspecting head is pure entertainment, and now that I’ve discovered it, I have no choice but to enjoy it to its full extent.”

Peter subconsciously runs a hand nervously through said ridiculous curls, then smiles up at her.

She drums her fingers in her empty lap, then continues, “Tomorrow, I want you to take your key, go make a spare copy, and give it to me.”

“What—”

“Pinky promise I’m not a serial killer, or a stalker, or anyone other than your concerned and obviously wildly-more-responsible neighbor,” she smirks at him and holds a fisted hand with one pinky pointing up at him.

Peter shrugs, “I wouldn’t say _wildly…_ ”

“I was being generous,” she quips, which only makes Peter blush further and hide his chin on his chest before reaching out a pinky to link with hers.

“This feels like a pact.”

“Damn straight it is, New Kid, us 335-ers gotta stick together.” she smirks, letting her hand drop after a heated stare-off and pinky-link, “Guy that lived there before you was a jerk. Now, you seem like an idiot, but definitely not a jerk. And I kinda wanna make you _my_ idiot.”

“I’m game,” Peter smiles, “On one condition… You tell me your name.”

She smirks and nods a few times, then says softly, “Michelle,” but as soon as she says it she narrows her eyes and looks him over, and it feels like the name came out more as a question than anything.

Peter shrugs, “Are you sure?”

“Mhm,” she hums, “Just considering something.” Her brows stay knitted together for a moment longer, then she takes a deep breath and straightens her back against the wall behind her, bright brown eyes back to the place, wide and what he assumes must be practically peering into his soul, and then she adds, “Yup, Michelle. But you can call me MJ.”

And the floor is hard and uncomfortable and that obnoxiously ugly plant has leaves butting into her beautiful hair and the light above them flickers and god knows how long it will be until he gets his door open and nothing about the situation should be considered good, not even in the slightest.

And yet, Peter is praising that fact that he learned 2 solid and unmistakable truths today:

Aunt May is always right.

Betty is never wrong.

And he’ll have to write them each hand-written thank you cards for that first thing in the morning.

But for now, Peter sees her smile sparkle in the god-awful lighting, and he beams back, twisting to grab his small bag of take-out, and saying, “Well, MJ, I hope you like Thai.”

“Are you kidding? I love it. And more importantly… I hate cooking on Mondays.”

 

 

_2\. Your socks_

It is painful to admit even to himself, because he is not sure when his brain reverted him back to middle school, but Peter has been running around like a lovesick puppy all week. He’s tried desperately to listen through his door so that maybe he could time it right and he’d leave for work at the same time as MJ (because, they’re like, friends now, on a first name basis, it’s a big deal). He thinks about waiting by his door and pretending to just get home at the same time as her so they can talk for a few minutes. Hell, he’s willing to risk 3 more weeks of no Take-out Monday for the fine and “lose his key” again if it comes down to it.

It’s getting bad.

But by Friday there’s been not one single interaction since their first meeting, and while the memory is lovely to play on loop in his head for hours on end, he’d like to update it.

He showers quickly after work and flies through his closet for his least-wrinkled clothes. He’s got dinner with Aunt May in 20 minutes, and though he knows he’s definitely not living up to her housekeeping standards, _she_ doesn’t have to know that.

He hops out of the bedroom pushing one shoe on then, the other, grabs his key from the counter and a jacket, and is out the door.

And it figures, the first 30-seconds of the week he’s _not_ thinking about MJ, she appears.

Her door swings open just the second his closes, and while he has a moment, considers running away so she never knew he was there in the first place. (Look, he said he wanted to talk to her again, but the idea is entirely different from the actual follow-through. Which is terrifying).

But it’s too late, because something, er, some _dog_ catches his attention and leaves him rooted in place before he can make a run for it.

There’s a small, fluffy black dog at MJ’s feet, attached to a long red leash she holds in one hand, uses her free one to shut the door behind her. The dog may be small, but his bark is deceivingly menacing, and he jumps on his feet and tugs on the leash to get closer to Peter, barking wildly.

“Calm down, it’s just Peter, we like him,” MJ coos down to the dog, pulling him back towards her, but the bark remains. Peter takes a tentative step back before MJ’s eyes meet his, “Good to see you again, Parker. Hair looking mildly less bad today.”

“Uh, yeah, thanks,” Peter clears his throat nervously, hoping MJ’s ever-present cool demeanor can rub off on him soon, then nods, “I’ve learned the secret is the more I ignore it, the better it behaves.”

“Hmm, really?” MJ smirks, meeting Peter in the middle of the hallway and tucking a piece of hair off of Peters forehead gently. Peter hopes she doesn’t hear the sharp breath he sucks in at the motion, and the fact that he doesn’t let it out for the entire time she leaves her light touch ghosted over his hair.

The moment is, however, rudely interrupted by a dog running his paws over Peter’s feet, then his pants, jumping to bark at him.

“Hey, sit!” MJ says firmly, tugging the leash to her side, the dog following her command and sitting at her side. MJ leans to rub his head, “Okay, good boy, but you couldn’t wait until after I finished making fun of Parker’s hair?” She giggles, then stands back up to face Peter.

He smiles.

“Well, even though your dog obviously doesn’t like me, I’m a fan of his if he keeps you from making fun of me,” Peter shrugs a hand in his pocket, “What’s his name?”

“Spider-Man.”

Peter’s head shoots up from looking at the dog to MJ, her expression unreadable yet again.

Because really, the universe is having more fun making fun of him right now than MJ is (which is already a lot).

He blinks, literally chokes on just the air in his lings, then manages to cough out, “What? Uh, are you serious?”

MJ cracks a grin and shakes her head at Peter, “No,” she scoffs, “You got something against the guy though?”

“No, no—” Peter says while she laughs, “Just uh, didn’t know he was so popular that people were naming dogs after him.”

“Well, like I said, _technically_ not his name,” MJ starts, “Shelter that found him named him Sandy, but that sounds like an old white guy’s name. So, I started calling him Spidey instead, since he loves to climb all over every single piece of furniture I own just like the hero, isn’t that right my little bug?” She leans over and giggles at the dog, and Peter regains the ability to breathe.

“He’s talented,” he chokes out.

“Eh, I’d go more with pain in the ass, but he’s cute so…” MJ smirks up at Peter, “Guess I have a type.”

Forget the breathing. Just, forget it. Gone. Done. Donate his body to science.

“We gotta work on your reaction time, dude,” MJ, pats a hand on his shoulder with a laugh that jolts him back, “If you’re not busy you could join us?”

“Join you…”

“On our walk. Though,” she says, eyeing him up and down, “You seem to have broken out the clean clothes with no wrinkles so, there must be something. Hot date?”

“If you consider dinner with my Aunt a hot date,” he shrugs.

“Where?”

“Uh, that Italian place a few blocks down. I can’t remember the name right now but uh, I’m meeting her there…” Peter looks down at his watch, “Huh, 6 minutes ago.”

“Cool, we’re headed that way too,” MJ states, then starts down the hallway, dog on leash in tow. Peter can’t seem to remember how to walk. She flips her head around, hair bouncing, to face him from a few feet away and call, “You coming, loser?”

“Since when did I become a loser?” Peter says, starting towards her, “Thought I was just an idiot with bad hair?”

“It’s growing on me,” She smirks, her dog trotting next to her, “The hair and the idiot thing.”

“What about the pain in the ass part?”

“I never said I meant you by that,” she smirks, confirming she _totally_ meant him by that, and Peter’s heart flip flops like it’s losing a game of Dance Dance Revolution. MJ’s head turns to face him when he catches up right outside the elevator, and is met with a challenging grin. “What? Spidey doesn’t like the stairs.”

“Oh, _Spidey_ doesn’t like them.”

“I don’t do more work than I have to, Parker,” she turns back to face the elevator, smug, “Which is saying a lot since you are turning out to be more work than I imagined.”

“A pain in the ass.”

“A cute one,” she eyes, when the elevator doors open and she steps in, dog in tow, “Very lucky you’re cute.”

He steps in behind her and doesn’t know what else to do other than smile (and hide an embarrassingly bright blush).

“Thanks.”

“Anytime.”

And it takes him double the time to get to the restaurant May’s waiting at, considering how slow he walks next to MJ and her dog, talking, patting himself on the back for every full sentence he makes out without stuttering and compliment he takes without blushing. They talk about everything and nothing all at the same time, like he knew he liked her an exponentially unreasonable amount for the brief interactions they’d had, but this really set him over the edge.

He’s probably somewhere near a half an hour late by the time he runs into the restaurant, flustered and out of breath from _nothing_ to do with speed and everything to do with the girl he waved off before pushing the restaurant’s door open.

Luckily, May’s seated near the front and sees Peter approach out the window. And she’s suddenly not bothered at all, not even in the slightest, by his late arrival, practically chastises him for not being later, once she spots the beautiful girl tucking her chin and heading off in the opposite direction.

“I said look for someone’s place to shower in, not someone to shower _with_.”

“Aunt May!”

* * *

By his second Sunday in the apartment (just his ninth day in the building total, sixth since meeting MJ, but who’s counting?) Peter decided he had to do laundry.

He loads a ton of his clothes into the small plastic laundry basket, throws a tide pod or two on top of the mound, and heads out of the apartment, full intentions to do a very independent adult-world thing with no outside guidance. And he was gonna call May as soon as it happened to rub it in her face.

The laundry room was in the basement of the apartment building, a small room with a surprisingly unpleasant smell and maybe three lightbulbs total, but enough machines that Peter found an unused one fairly quickly. He threw some clothes into one, then right before he was about to close the door, remembered Aunt May’s thing about separating lights from darks, so he switched around some things in his piles and had two washers full and running soon.

Barely halfway done and already feeling proud.

The entire ordeal took longer than he had imagined, and he was just leaving his room, empty laundry basket in hand ready to bring his cleaned and dried clothes back up, when he passed MJ entering her own place.

“Hey, MJ,” he said, coming out more like a sigh when he noticed her blow a curl off the front of her face, no free hand between the groceries she was holding and the way she was trying to maneuver her door open.

“Hey,” she huffs, door triumphantly swinging in, “I’m getting good at that,” she nods, then smiles at him, “Oh, laundry. I put some in the wash before I left, thanks for reminding me.” And with that she’s in her apartment, door shut quickly behind her without another word on the matter.

Peter hums happily to himself as he makes his final trip to the laundry room today, loads his dry clothes into the basket before hopping in the elevator back to the third floor.

The clothes are practically overflowing out of the top of the basket, and it’s a miracle he can see in front of him enough to make the walk back to his apartment.

He heaves an accomplished sigh once the door swings shut. The TV is on low by his couch, and he laughs at whatever lame joke he hears before rounding out past the living room and into his ridiculously small bedroom. He tosses the basket down on the mattress with a resounding _thump_ that makes some clothes bounce and topple off the top of the stack, and before he takes a celebratory seat on the edge of the bed, he snaps a picture of evidence of adult-world work and sends it to May. (And he’d like to personally strangle whoever taught her how to send a Bitmoji back.)

He smiles and tucks the phone away after a good few minutes of texting her back and forth, updating Ned, scrolling through other things mindlessly, as adult-world adults should do, then sits up.

And now, staring at the large pile of laundry on his bed, Peter suddenly feels kind of fucked.

It’s not like he’s never done laundry before. He has, plenty of times. But he never felt so much pressure to get it right. If he folded something wrong or bleached a black shirt on accident or didn’t know how to get a stain out, Ned was right there. Betty usually in tow. Hell, even May would come by if he needed her. And he didn’t care that much about wrinkled shirt collars before. But now, he feels a weird responsibility to do it right. And it’s making his mind go completely blank on even just the fundamentals.

Pants could be tricky but not the worst, he figures, and the shirts with all their buttons and collars look particularly daunting sitting above his lone, flat pillow, and socks well... he can’t possibly mess up socks, right? Just match two together. Easy. A good place to start.

He rummages through the pile and finds the first sock he spots, holds it up, then goes in search for its pair. Things go fine for a while, matching pair after pair, and he smiles at his success.

Until, there’s the sock.

The lone sock that’s companion is nowhere to be seen.

Peter flicks through the remaining clothes on his bed, checks under the blankets, under the bed, walks around the edge of his room, and nothing.

And things were looking so positive.

“Where did you go, white sock?” he mumbles to himself, down on his knees peeking under the bed.

Just as Peter’s deciding it’s a lost cause and making his third failed attempt at folding one of his shirts, there’s a sudden and loud knock on the door. He hops off his bed and out of his room, smooths out the bottom hem of his shirt and jogs towards the door.

Within a minute, he has one hand on the knob and twists it open to reveal—

“Someone has something they’d like to return to you.”

MJ stands in Peter’s doorway, small dog tucked under one arm in front of her chest, a familiar white sock hanging limp in his mouth, demonstrating to Peter exactly why they’re called “puppy dog eyes”.

It is, without a doubt, the very thing that sends his heart right over the edge. Free falling on a flimsy bungee cord, kind of falling. A plummet.

And all she does is smile.

“You found my sock! Thanks buddy,” Peter laughs, and pets the dog’s head.

“I wouldn’t say found—he straight up stole it. It looked like you might have dropped it between our doors on your way back.”

“Well, finders keepers. He’s getting better use out of it anyway,” Peter shrugs, pressing one shoulder against the side of the doorframe, arms crossed.

And without any further prompting, Spider-dog (Sandy? Spidey? Peter isn’t sure what he’s actually supposed to call this dog because he’s still trying to learn the ins and outs of Michelle’s intricate sarcasm) jumps straight out of MJ’s arms and flies, running into Peter’s apartment.

“Oh god, I’m—“

“Would you like to come in?” Peter says wittily, extending an arm to his side and motioning in.

MJ huffs with a smile before stepping into the room slowly, “Gee, Parker, I didn’t peg you as the kind of guy to invite a girl in before the first date.”

Peter sputters against the back of the door as he shuts it. Did she just—

“Well isn’t it cute in here...” she spins and looks around the apartment, it’s sparse furnishing that include only essential furniture and a picture or two.

Peter miraculously gains enough composure to retort a witty, “Never said I was a Chip Gaines.”

“Definitely not. You’re more a Joanna,” MJ smirks, steps towards the counter, “It’s reassuring to know it’s at least just as small and miserable in here as mine.”

“Us 335-ers gotta stick together, right?” Okay Peter, deep breaths. What do you do when you have the prettiest girl you’ve ever seen in your shoebox apartment? Offer her a drink? He doesn’t have anything other than water but that’s nice right? She seems like a girl who cares about hydration. Which is good. He didn’t even look at what he’s wearing, his awful, old gray sweatpants, and surely she’ll have enough ammo for 6 weeks with the way he didn’t even touch his hair this morning, as it flops over his ears haphazardly.

He snaps out of his panicked thoughts when he presses a hand on the back of his couch nonchalantly and notices the dog hop onto the cushions below him.

“You weren’t kidding about his climbing abilities, huh?” he laughs, watching Spider-Man the Dog run circles on the plushy seat.

“Oh shit, Spidey, get off Parker’s couch!” She leaps from her spot on the other side of the room and starts to nudge him off, “I am so sorry about this. He’s never really anywhere but my apartment.”

“Nah, don’t worry about it, that couch is so old,” Peter waves off, and sits down next to the dog, who promptly jumps into Peters lap and stand on two feet for perfect access to lick all over Peter’s face.

Peter tips his head back in a laugh that echoes from his toes up, the slobber all over his bright red cheeks.

“I apologize for my dog taking over your entire life,” Michelle hums, sitting in the small plush chair opposite the couch, pulling on the tie around the bun on top of her hair, letting it fall over her back, “Is it weird that I’m oddly offended?”

“Really?”

“Yeah, I mean, he’s got your sock, your couch,” she lists, “I thought I’d at least get to your face first.”

Peter doesn’t have time to adjust after her latest wild comment of the night before she looks at her phone, then stands up abruptly, “I gotta go pick up my clothes from downstairs now. Let’s go Spidey—”

She pats the side of her leg motioning the dog to follow, but something miraculous makes Peter say, “Key’s on the counter, if you want.”

She stops her stride halfway to the door, flips her hair (that Peter’s also feeling a bit offended about, since she loves to talk about how messy his hair is but we never comment on how wild her curls are… though, he’s not complaining), and smirks at him.

“Okay,” she nods, “Okay, I’ll be right back, boys.”

And let the record reflect that this is the most Peter has felt like an adult-world adult all day.

Smug as hell.

* * *

“C’mon, just follow me!”

“I’m trying, you’re going too fast!”

“Watch, watch,” MJ holds one hand out to Peter, and slowly brings it down to grip a sleeve of one of her shirts, “Say it with me, young Padawan, step one.”

“I don’t like how you’re trying to make lame Star Wars references and think that’ll work on me,” Peter sits back on his heels, kneeling on the side of his bed that is occupied by his clean laundry, the other covered by MJ’s stash. She eyes him sharply, so he huffs and sits back up, “Okay, step one: sleeves.”

“Good, fold ‘em carefully, watch your creases…” her head is tucked as if she’s looking down to follow her steps, but her eyes are trained up and over to Peter’s side of the bed, her own hands moving on their own accord.

“Yes sir,” Peter mock salutes, then smooths the two sleeves down in the middle of the shirt.

When Michelle returned about an hour ago after picking up her laundry, she was appalled to find the state of Peter’s haphazardly strewn around his room. She promptly grabbed his keys again and came back with her basket, made room on his bed, and was determined to show Peter a thing or two about basic laundry etiquette.

If you count how success by how many times they’ve both collapsed back on his floor from laughing so hard at something the other said or did, then things are going swimmingly, hand them the Nobel Prize for their incredible hard work and triumphs.

If you count success by how many articles of clothing they’ve folded and/or hung up in Peter’s closet or drawers, then it’s going pitifully.

“Watch it,” MJ warns, a smile playing at her lips that betrays her tone, “I miss when you used to be scared to talk to me.”

“So like, three hours ago?”

“I’m not that scary, am I?” she leans up and grabs a white cotton t-shirt from the bed and throws it at his face, “I think this is yours.”

It sticks the landing on top of his head, and Peter chuckles behind the fabric before picking it off, unceremoniously rolling it up and stashing it in his ‘don’t worry about it they’re not real clothes’ pile.

“Do I really need to still answer that?”

“You’re a loser,” she smiles, then nods her chin at his half-folded shirt on the bed, “C’mon, finish that bad boy up.”

“Laundry should be illegal.”

“Having hair as long as yours should be illegal,” she counters.

“Why are you so obsessed with my hair?” he shrieks, “Can you find something else to pick on?”

“Are you aware what you’re asking for here…”

“I feel kind of attacked by all the hair mockery in here,” he runs a hand through his hair, uses his other to flip the bottom of the shirt up, finishing its fold, “Aha!”

“Look at you!” MJ cheers, clapping her hands under her chin, “Only about eight more to go.”

“Nooo,” he whines, flopping forward on the bed, chin on his crossed forearms, “We should be done. Can we be done? I wanna be done.”

“You’re a child,” she chastises, throwing another article of clothing at his head. When Peter laughs and removes it, he realizes that this time, it was one of her own. An oversized dark green sweatshirt, which, as he quickly discovers, is literally made of the softest fabric in the entire world.

“Oh, I like this,” he hums, running his hands over the fabric.

“My sweatshirt?”

“Yeah,” he sits up on his knees and holds the sweatshirt across his chest, “I think it’d look nice on me.”

“Did you not hear the emphasis on _my_ in the phrase _my sweatshirt_?”

“I will trade you this sweatshirt for the white sock,” he says, hugging the sweatshirt closer to his chest and pointing at MJ’s dog, who has been sitting quietly by the bedroom door, contentedly chewing on aforementioned sock.

“That’s not fair, that sock went to my dog, not me!”

“I don’t think he’d mind sharing, right Spidey?” Peter nuzzles towards the dog before looking back at MJ with a giggle. “How ‘bout this: I’ll give it back if we get to be done with laundry for the night…”

“My sweatshirt is not up for negotiation. And since when did it become your hostage to barter anyway?”

“Since you threw it at my head!” Peter yells back, smirk too big to fit between his cheeks.

“Fine, 2 more shirts,” she reasons.

Peter holds the sweatshirt and tilts his head to the side, almost touching his ear to shoulder in dramatic thought, eyebrows furrowed, and big thumbs up to whatever powers that may be that make it happen, because MJ giggles.

And truly, totally, honestly, his heartbeat has never felt more fucked than it does listening to that sound.

So he decides, to hell with it, and hops up on his feet and on to the bed, “No, I think we’re just going to be done.” He crawls up the bed, leaning his back against the headboard, feet stretched out and sweatshirt hugged to his chest, smiling.

And MJ does what Peter figures is the least-MJ thing possible, and rolls her eyes in a similar ‘to hell with it’ fashion and joins him, shoulders bumping.

“Ah, all this adulting has me exhausted, I could fall asleep right now, at 7pm on a Sunday,” Peter sighs, placing one sleeve of the coveted sweatshirt over MJ’s stomach next to him, before settling back into position, “Did you happen to teach your dog how to turn off the lights?”

“ _That’s_ bold.”

“Oh, no, I just meant, to sleep, you know, with the lights—”

“Relax, Parker, I got it,” she laughs, head turned towards him and tugging the sweatshirt slightly more towards her, “You were looking pretty promising with the lack of stupid dork thing for a while there.”

“Guess it’s part of my charm.”

She laughs one quiet huff with a nod, and then they’re quiet for a moment.

She whispers softly, “Hey, Peter?”

He nods, turns his head to face MJ, her chin tucked and fingers fascinated with the hem of the dark green sweatshirt.

“I’m not very confident in my ability to make friends, anything related to any part of them at all, so I probably have no business saying this but,” she says, “I am _very_ glad you got friend-dumped and were forced to move into the apartment across the hall from me. You’re an idiot who, despite having clearly lived without an authority figure for a solid amount of time, still doesn’t have a basic understanding of how to fold a t-shirt, but you’ve been really nice to me, for no reason at all.”

She bites her bottom lip and taps her toe on a small stack of clothes at the foot of the bed before continuing, “Like, you already made up for the umbrella with flowers, and waiting for your key by feeding me take-out, so you have no obligation to be my friend, yet, here you are. I’m not really used to that kind of thing. You’re just, a genuinely nice guy. And that’s more important than wrinkled pants, so…” she smirks, “Thank you, Ned that I’ve never met, for falling in love.”

The right corner of her mouth quirks up in the faintest of smiles before she tucks her head into the crook of Peter’s shoulder.

“I also think now is a good time to tell you I’ve pledged to cut off those ridiculous curls on your head. No matter _what_ I have to do to make it happen. I owe it to you at this point in our friendship to save you from yourself and your hair.”

“Oh my god, Michelle!” Peter yells with a laugh, “That could have been a really nice moment we just had there!”

She bounces with his shoulder as they laugh, still tucked against his side, and only smiles fondly when she whispers, “Yeah, well, nice moments are overrated.”

And sitting there, in his cardboard box-sized bedroom with a cheap, flickering light above them and lumps of clean laundry under them, her curls tickling the bottom of his chin when it falls on top of hers, and a dark green sweatshirt not big enough to share, no matter how tightly they’re pressed together, Peter knows the sum of it all is decidedly _not nice_.

But if this is what not nice feels like, Peter will never ask for a nice moment ever again.

He sleeps amazing that night, after she leaves shortly after their not-nice moment, and wakes up the next day more excited for a Monday than he thinks should be allowed.

He’s Peter Parker though, so he’s _late,_ and he’d almost trip running out his door leaving for work anyway, but the object on the floor right outside the doorway he steps on surely does add an element of obstacle.

He stops and picks it up before shutting the door behind him, and finds a familiar, heavenly soft feel at his fingertips.

It’s the dark green sweatshirt, folded neatly and wrapped in a bow with a note attached to the top.

****

**_Didn’t have time for flowers but figured you might like this better anyway. I have a weird feeling I might have a sudden craving for Thai tonight. Let me know if you might be too._ **

**_Also, Spidey owes you a sock, so we can do that on the walk there._ **

 

And at the bottom of the note, is her number.

 

 

_3\. Your favorite coffee mug_

Peter didn’t know there was a difference between friends and _friends_ until MJ happened. Because somewhere between the third week in a row of Take-out Monday that he spends with MJ instead of his years-long partner of Ned, something in him decidedly confirms there’s a difference.

Like, cold pizza on the floor in front of the TV with Ned: friends.

MJ reaching across his small table to hold his hand as he twirls a piece of lo mein around his fork because it keeps slipping off when he tries and the way she giggles triumphantly when she pulls the fork towards her mouth and eats it instead without ever letting go of his hand: _friends._

The distinction seems pretty significant.

He could write novels about the way MJ sits with one foot on her seat, knee tucked under her chin, telling him about her day. And sure, he could write a novel about Ned being his best friend in the multiverse, because he is, definitely, but, a novel - singular. MJ gets a trilogy for just her eyes alone.

It’s not like it happens totally spontaneously. It starts with the usual passing each other in or out of their apartments, stopping to talk for a bit, but the conversations start to last hours once phones are introduced. At first it’s showing her laundry he folded, or when he leaves for work with his own umbrella one morning. But then it becomes a habit, like filling silence with the sound of her perfect texting grammar and distaste for any emojis he decides to use (that are suddenly acceptable when she sends them). She says she doesn’t like making eye contact with anyone on the subway so she texts him the entire ride to look busy, and then he frantically changes out of sweats so he can walk her dog with her again, and then soon she’s hanging out on his couch one night, and she’s back a few days later to watch the newest episode of Project Runway that only started because they had nothing else to watch waiting for pizza to get there one night but now that they’ve started they’re hooked.

It is entirely too much for Peter to handle. And he absolutely never wants to _stop handling it_ , but still. Too much. She’s this perfect, intelligent, witty, ball of energy that consumes his every thought and he’s just Peter. Peter who forgets how to speak around her sometimes which only makes her wittier and smarter and heart-eyes inducing.

It is a set-up wholly stacked against him.

But he thinks, game on.

He’s currently in an all-out texting war with her on the pros and cons of coffee versus tea that he knows he’s going to lose but decides to fight the good fight anyway while he holds their table at the back of a coffee shop for Ned and Betty who are on their way.

 

_but how do u stay awake?????_

**_Like most people do._ **

_most people drink coffee mj_

**_Tea is actually more popular than coffee in many countries._ **

_but not america!_

**_At least I’m not a caffeine addicted drone_ **

_omg mj_

**_…_ **

_U didn’t use a period_

_the drones have won !!_

**_Shut up_ **

_AGAIN?!?!_

**_Green tea has a good amount of caffeine, doing the same work as coffee and it tastes better._ **

**_Plus there’s a lot of great health benefits to drinking tea in general and I stand by it._ **

**_Maybe if you tried it sometime, one of its very important side effects will kick in._ **

_if the side effect includes me becoming less of a loser you can leave_

**_But its scientifically proven!_ **

**_YOU LOVE SCIENCE_ **

_maybe if you drank coffee you’d be less grouchy_

**_You did not just use the word grouchy._ **

_i did_

**_I’ve had coffee before I just know tea is superior._ **

**_I bet you’ve never tried tea._ **

_i have!_

**_What kind?_ **

_idk it was tea_

**_There are so many kinds, the fact that you don’t know means it was awful by principle and you can’t base your entire opinion on it._ **

_tea is just tea…_

_and that’s the tea_

**_I’m blocking your number._ **

**_And stealing your key._ **

**_And letting my dog rip up everything valuable you own._ **

**_Just for that sentence alone._ **

_that wasn’t a full sentence…_

**_I’m reminding you that this friendship is voluntary and I can and will back out_ **

_…_

_i’m not gonna point out the lack of period again_

_i’m not gonna do it_

_also tea is basically dirty water and you can’t convince me otherwise_

**_ARE U KIDDING_ **

_U!!!!????_

**_Tea is so diverse and flavorful, relaxing, affordable, and healthy._ **

**_Ugh._ **

**_If I didn’t want to win this argument so badly you’d never be allowed in my apartment again._ **

**_But I need to win._ **

****

“Oh my god what’s got you so smiley today?”

Peter’s head snaps up and he drops a smile he didn’t even know he was tightly holding on his lips when he hears his best friend’s voice above him. He quickly shuts his phone and tucks it screen side down on the table and slides back in his chair.

Totally not suspicious at all.

“Nothing. I wasn’t texting anyone.”

Good one Peter. Nice work.

“I didn’t say you were,” Ned laughs, extending a hand that Peter meets for their handshake, “But now that you mention it… Who were you texting?”

“I said no one,” Peter says, about three and a half octaves too high to be normal, “Just saw something funny on Instagram.”

“You hate Instagram! All the buttons confuse you. I’m not buying it,” Ned turns to face Betty as they sit, and points his question at her, “You?” and Peter feels like sinking under the table. She knows. Betty would have seen right through the lie even if she hadn’t known about MJ since literally day one and been the only person Peter contacted when he’d freak out over every stupid little thing he did around her and needed someone to hype him up and/or talk him down.

And in all the years he’s known Betty, she’s never been anything less than a girl who won’t deal with your nonsense. But maybe Peter’s brow scrunches in just a worried enough way, because she just sits next to Ned with barely a blink in Peter’s direction before sighing, “No, I believe it. I actually just sent him something before I left work.”

Peter hopes his sigh of relief at her quick lie isn’t too evident.

It must not be because Ned’s attention has shifted entirely from Peter’s mystery texting lover to questioning Betty as to _when in the world she possibly started sending memes to Peter_.

“I can’t even believe I just said that sentence out loud.”

“Peter and I are friends, what’s so hard to believe?” Betty shrugs, pulling the muffin Peter had ordered from his side of the table to hers and taking a piece, “See, friends?”

Friends. But his mind is stuck on _friends._ Er _, friend._

“Since when?”

“I’ve always thought Betty was awesome, dude,” Peter says, fidgeting in his seat, trying to get back to normal, away from the totally-not-thinking-about-my- _friend_ thing, and adds with a smirk, “Way out of your league, no offense.”

Betty pats a faux-dramatic hand to her heart, “See, I would never let Peter date anyone else because then I’d lose the greatest third wheel of all time.”

“There’s nothing I love more than being your third wheel, six years and counting!” Peter jokes, and without thinking, picks his phone up when he hears it chime signaling a new message. He absentmindedly repeats as he opens it, “Nothing I love more.”

 

**_Tea at my place tonight. Whenever you get home. Come hungry because you are about to eat your words, Parker._ **

_I can be there at like 8?_

**_It’s a date._ **

**_Also thank you for capitalizing your I._ **

****

“Did Betty send you something else?” Ned questions, eyes up over at Peter when he remembers where he is and wills his cheeks to stay away from pink and shoves his phone back under a napkin.

“Uh,” he chokes, “Aunt May says hi.”

Ned nods slowly, then stands, “I’m gonna ignore how sketchy you’re being and chalk it up to lack of sleep and Betty stealing your food. So I’m gonna go get Betty and me coffees, and replace that muffin.”

Peter watches him walk to the counter to order, and once he’s far enough away he sighs loudly and drops his head onto his forearms that were resting on the table.

“Are you kidding, Parker? After I just pulled a cover out of my ass for you?” Betty whisper-yells, leaning back in her seat.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I don’t know what happened. I broke.”

“Seriously, what happened that was so important you couldn’t keep your high school crush out of it for 30 seconds? You looked like she just got down on one knee and popped the question!”

Peter slides his phone across the table and Betty picks it up, “Read like, the last 3 texts from her.”

He hears her mumble the words she reads under her breath, _tea is so diverse… win this argument… apartment… get home…_ “I don’t see anything that crazy here,” she looks up at him, unamused.

“Keep going,” Peter waves her on from his slump on the edge of the table.

Betty looks back down at the phone and reads from the texts out loud, “I can be there at 8, It’s a date—OH MY GOD.”

“There it is.”

“It’s a date? Peter, why did she say that?”

“Do I look like I know? That’s why I gave the phone to you!” Peter sits up, eyes wide.

“Are you going to answer her?” Betty stretches the phone back to Peter, but he presses her hand back.

“ _You’re_ going to answer her!”

“No, I’m not, man up.”

“I don’t want to!” Peter whines, “I think this just confirms I’m gonna stay your third wheel forever.”

“I was serious about us being friends,” Betty says, “But I am serious when I say this girl is not. And it should stay that way.”

“What are you talking about? You’re my friend, Ned is my friend, MJ is my friend _.”_

“You think I don’t know the difference between friend and _friend_?”

Dammit Betty.

“You, Peter, are my friend. Ned is my _friend_. No tonal inflection is safe in girl talk Peter, lesson number one.”

“I thought this was the bro code?”

“Answer her!” Betty ignores him and yells, placing his phone back in front of him, “Or I’ll play dumb and tell Ned I don’t know what a meme is and you’ll have to tell him about your secret friend.”

“You wouldn’t,” Peter’s head quirks to the side as she smirks at him.

“I would,” she says, then pulls his cup of coffee away from him too, met with imminent protest, “Ah, ah, no. I’m not letting you go there with coffee breath.”

“Seriously?”

“Think of the possibilities that could occur with the two of you making tea together in her tiny little kitchen. You’ll thank me later,” she picks up his cup and takes a sip, and immediately coughs, pushing it back down to the table, “Oh my god this is awful, no wonder she’s weaning you off this stuff.”

“Traitor!” Peter laughs at her puckered smile, “You’re supposed to be team coffee.”

“I basically drink milk with coffee flavor. Whatever _that_ is,” she points to his cup, “Is hellish. Team MJ all the way.”

“Can we go back to bro code yet? You never stole my coffee in the bro code.”

“Seriously, I leave you alone for 5 minutes and I have to replace his coffee now too?” Ned exclaims as he sits back down next to Betty, a coffee for him and milk with coffee flavor for her and a bag of the trio’s usual go-to favorite baked goods plopped in the center.

“No, no, Peter’s actually cutting back on coffee,” Betty smiles, and Peter feels like slipping through the back of his chair.

“Really?”

“He’s into tea now.”

“I thought you hated tea?” Ned says, taking a sip of his coffee.

Peter winces and replies, “Just figured I’d give it a try.”

“Oh that’s actually great, because my mom sent me this tea a few weeks ago, some herbal thing she said is supposed to help me relax and I’m never going to use it. So I can just tell her you loved it instead.”

“What kind of tea is it?” Peter squints at him over the top of the bag of pastries before dipping a hand in for a cookie.

“I don’t know, she bought it for me during that week I had to share a cubicle with the temp they brought in.”

“I love when we refer to Flash as ‘the temp’,” Betty grins, chin in her hand.

“Did it work?” Peter asks and Ned shakes his head.

“Dude, I told you, I didn’t touch it. It’s just a bag of leaves, I don’t know what to do with it,” Ned takes the bag from Peter and pulls out a cookie, “I think it might be green tea? Is that a thing?”

Green tea? Green tea!

Peter sits up in his seat, “Are you sure you don’t want it?”

“Positive, we’re still on for movie night this weekend, right? I’ll bring it then.”

“Actually, I’m think I’m feeling kind of stressed,” Peter pauses, “Would it be possible at all for me to get it now?”

Betty laughs so hard she owes Peter another baked good.

* * *

Peter knows he’s supposed to spend the next hour or so catching up with Ned and Betty, enjoying their favorite coffee shop’s pleasant aroma, sweet music, and addictive cookies that seem to multiply the older they get still frequenting the back-corner booth. But instead, Peter spends it tapping his foot in time with the little second hand on the clock. Because. _Date_. Loose term. But still. _Date._

He’s not totally checked out, and there’s never a time he won’t love being with two of his closest friends (no emphasis), so it’s not painful, time doesn’t drag on, it’s just. _Date_.

So once they’ve finished up and Peter’s walked home with them, acquired the green tea and started on the sprint back to 335B, it’s already almost 8:30. Betty, to her credit, tries to speed things along for Peter’s sake, but there was no way around the green tea diversion.

He bounds up the stairs and down their never-ending hallway with surprising confidence, and is about to knock on her door at 8:24 exactly without even the slightest nervous jitter when his phone suddenly chimes in his pocket.

 

**_Are you still coming?_ **

****

Shit.

Panic hits him square in the chest. He didn’t even get inside yet and he already messed the whole thing up. He should just not be allowed to have feelings anymore. He should be banned. He has never once done anything correctly with them in his life (except for maybe that one time he made May that cute Mother’s Day card. But never again.)

 

_I’m so so sorry I was running late and didn’t even realize the time._

_I can catch you tomorrow if it’s too late now?_

Catch you tomorrow? Ban him from the English language while you’re at it, really. Peter paces between the doors and settles on starting to unlock his own, but his phone lights up with a message again.

 

**_Don’t worry about it, you’re fine!_ **

**_I just meant, if you’re still coming can you please bring yourself a tea mug_ **

_I don’t wanna be a problem, it’s late_

**_Is it a school night????_ **

**_Are you an old lady???_ **

**_It’s 8:30, get your ass over here Parker_ **

****

Peter’s breathy giggle is definitely warranted in _friends_ territory. He opens his door and heads immediately to his small kitchen cabinet to grab a mug before texting back:

 

_that was a bit aggressive_

**_I prefer the term passionate._ **

_ur passionate about my coffee mugs?_

**_*tea mugs_ **

**_And no, I’m passionate about your ass._ **

****

Peter legitimately almost drops the mug in his hands, like, he is more surprised that he didn’t drop it, and every other valuable item in his apartment, than he is surprised by the fact that he didn’t. Because, it warrants a good coffee mug shatter. And then some.

He has never run out of his apartment quicker.

He’s still in his clothes from work, has his mug tucked under one arm and reaches the other out to knock on her door and only has 2 mini existential crises in the time it takes between the knock and the moment he sees the door swing open.

MJ peeks her head around the door, shoulder and forearm pressed against the doorframe, her other hand on the doorknob that she’s pulled open slightly behind her. Her hair is stacked up in a messy bun on top of her head and she’s weaseled her way back into the green sweatshirt he thought he still had custody of, her make-up is off and their crappy hallway lighting should not legally do anyone any favors.

And yet, he watches her chest fall slightly as she sighs into one of her little hidden smiles, and lets the top of her head fall to the side to rest on her arm perched on the door frame, her eyes fixed solely on him, and he swears he’s never seen anything more beautiful.

“Uh, hey,” He manages, more of a breath than words, “I’m sorry, again, for being late.”

“I’d have forgiven you if you were taking the extra time to fix that mop of hair,” she squints, “But looking at you right now, I don’t think I can do that.”

“I’m sorry.”

She sighs and purses her lips to the side with a light laugh, “I thought I taught you what a joke was, I don’t care. Honestly, I heard you outside the door five minutes ago and just wanted to see you squirm.”

Peter feels his chest deflate as she continues to laugh, “Cruel.”

“The little nervous beads of sweat help the hair,” she pulls her hand off the door knob, letting the door swing to her hip, and uses the now free hand to gently push back a piece of his hair. “And you’re not even technically late. I’m a big girl, I don’t have a bed time. Plus, you don’t have a long commute home.”

Relaxed now, Peter manages one of his rare moments of charm and looks back at his door, and says, “Eh, I don’t know Em, I think I draw the line at two steps. This hallway is looking like a solid three.”

She lifts her head and rolls her eyes, amused, and opens the door out behind her and motions him in, “Get in here, dork. Did you bring me a mug?”

“And tea.”

He steps into her apartment, which is arguably nicer than his, both in appearance and just overall facilities (MJ is clean and decorates nicely, plus her sink faucet never breaks and her floor doesn’t creak nearly as loudly as Peter’s does).

“You brought me tea? Is it poisoned?” MJ questions warily as she takes the small box of green tea and the mug, while Peter seems solely focused on crouching down to catch the small black dog hopping off the couch and running to greet him.

“It is 100% safe, swear it,” he hums, petting the dog, “Spidey, you don’t think I’d ever poison your mom, do you?” He lets a beat pass, then looks up to MJ, standing at the small counter behind him, “He said no, I would never do that.”

“I still don’t trust it, you’re trying to throw the competition,” MJ says, “Besides I already started brewing some.”

“Green tea?” Peter pops up and starts over towards her.

“No, like I said, green tea is pretty high in caffeine. I don’t plan on keeping you up all night yet.”

He tries not to dwell on that one sentence, tries to reason it as just a simple word choice, nothing more. And yet. It still plays on loop in his head as he carries on the rest of the conversation.

“Oh yeah? Well,” Peter rests his back against the counter next to where she fiddles with a kettle, “Does your fancy tea contain bioactive compounds that improve brain function and dental health, help you burn fat, as well as antioxidants that lower your risk for certain cancers and infections?”

“Are you about to run through a sunny field with your grandchildren while a voiceover with ‘side effects may include’ plays?” She eyes him, then turns back to making the tea, “Nice google search there, Parker.”

“Thank you,” he replies to her sarcastic smirk, crossing his arms and fiddling with the hem of one of his sleeves. He suddenly realizes what Betty meant about possibilities in a small kitchen. In apartments like theirs, it’s nothing more than a glorified counter with a few cabinets and drawers and kitchen necessities, in the front corner of the open living space. He is well within _friends_ range this way, no other way to be when the only available space to stand is close enough that he can literally feel each breath she takes.

Something about it is so oddly intimate, watching the girl he likes make him tea in a small red kettle on her even smaller stove at 8:43 on a weeknight.

And whatever that “something” is accelerates his heart rate and freaks him out because he’s watching the girl he likes make him tea in her very, very small kitchen and he hasn’t had the proper time to marinate in that fact before it’s actually happening,

“How was your day?”

Peter pops his head up suddenly, tilted slightly to look after her words register and is hit with another wave of how sweet this whole thing is.

You’d never guess what Michelle had just asked him if you had to make the guess based on Peter’s beam alone.

“Pretty good,” he says, “Better, now that I’m here.”

“Alright, I walked right into that one,” she shakes her head up at him, catching a glimpse of his smile (and if only she knew how much he really meant it). “Hand me your mug, Romeo.”

“What kind of host are you anyway, making me bring my own supplies?” Peter counters moving one arm to grip the mug on his left but not lifting it to bring to her yet.

“I’m not exactly used to company around here,” she starts, quietly, “I had two mugs but I dropped one of them right before you got here.”

“I did not peg you as the clumsy type!” He rolls the mug on its edge on the counter behind him, still smiling at her widely.

“I am not clumsy,” she defends.

“But you’ve got a good two inches on me, and I reach the top shelf in here no problem, so it couldn’t be that…”

“Where are you going with this?”

“So that only leaves… Oh my god, Michelle,” He gapes, eyes wide, “Were you nervous?”

“Please, I was not—”

“I make you nervous!” He laughs proudly, as he watches her lip dip from its usual smirk ever so slightly, and her chin tuck towards one shoulder. “Oh my god, I make you nervous.”

“Yeah, yeah, I was _real_ nervous thinking about how I might kick you out on sight when I saw your hair,” she drawls, rolling her eyes, but not hiding a small (nervous) smile. “C’mon the tea is ready,” she adds, suddenly reaching one arm around Peter’s waist to grab the mug from his hand. Her body pitches forward with the motion, pressing her side onto his chest, her head turned down just below his chin. And the most notable part of the action: the way it makes Peter take back every smug smile and proud laugh from the past 30-seconds because it is so blindingly obvious this girl _owns him._

“You are no help, Peter Parker,” she sighs, lifting the mug from around his fingers. She starts to lean up and out of his way, but stops when her face appears right in front of his.

It’s the closest they’ve ever been, and Peter is sure time goes against all its standard rules and slows down for them, for him specifically, so he has enough seconds to count every lash on her eye, every freckle hiding by her nose, every little line on her face and around her eyes and on her lips.

And thank god it does.

She is so…

“You smell like coffee.”

“What?” Peter is snapped out of his trance at the sound of her voice. Or maybe it’s not the sound at all, he thinks, because she says it so lightly, so fondly and sweetly that he’s back to getting that swooping intimate feeling in his chest and he’s sure he can’t be registering sound at all because he can’t stop staring at the way her lips curve into an ‘o’ when she speaks and the way her voice feels against his cheeks when she’s this close to him.

“Your breath,” she repeats, the same way, like she’s spitting feathers, not words, “It smells like coffee.”

He’s not sure how she comes to that conclusion, since _surely_ he can’t be breathing right now.

“Does it?”

“Mhm,” she hums, “How could that be?”

“I have no idea,” he shrugs dumbly.

“That’s strange,” she says, one eyebrow quirked up.

“Really strange,” his head barely manages a nod. Dammit, coffee breath. Betty should have pulled the cup 3 sips sooner. Or maybe he should have brushed his teeth.

But she’s too smart for his dumb act, and just tilts her head slightly to one side, to ask, “If you were just out having coffee you could have told me. You didn’t have to come.”

“I know,” he nods again, a risky movement he’s not too sure why he tries again, considering how he’s quite literally about to bump noses with her.

“Then why did you?”

“I guess, you make me nervous too.”

She’s silent for a moment, her eyes lidded as she looks down at her hands, then she smiles a little and pulls the mug to her chest, spinning away from him.

He wishes MJ would teach him how she gets going after moments like that so quickly, because she’s a good stretch away from him now and he still feels like a fragile little bubble she could pop with one perfect breath.

“This mug is awful, just so you know,” she holds it up, exposing its tacky ‘I heart NY’ lettering, but instead of a cartoon red heart, it’s a picture of an anatomical human heart. “Somehow, though, I expected nothing less.”

“Are you kidding?” he says, “This is my favorite mug! Ned and I bought matching ones when we went on this field trip in oh, I don’t know, probably seventh grade to a science museum.”

“It’s so cheesy,” she sighs, placing it on the counter and picking up the kettle to pour the water in, “But I guess I can’t be picky. It’s all we’ve got so…” she trails, off, sliding his mug to the side and reaching for her own, an off-white mug with a floral design around its edges that looks hand painted.

“Though it pains me to admit defeat, I do like yours,” Peter says, watching the steaming hot liquid flow into the ceramic mug.

And all in all, he hasn’t been thinking clearly since he walked through the door, so it’s practically subconsciously that he grabs the mug she filled for him and brings it to his lips, not hesitating to take a sip.

But its freakin hot.

“Ah, ah, hot,” Peter screeches, pulling the cup away and biting his lips together, trying to ignore the deceivingly hot burning feeling.

“Of course it’s hot, you idiot! It just came boiling off the stove!” she yells, but Peter can tell she’s trying not to laugh.

“Id huds,” he squeaks out, tongue between his lips, “I hink I bunt my ton?”

“You’re fine, grab a piece of ice from the freezer,” she laughs, pressing her thumb gently to his bottom lip before pushing him towards the freezer. “New rule: You let me say three annoying things about your hair before you try to drink the hot drink.”

“Does it have to be just my hair?” Peter’s head pokes into the freezer, then her returns to his spot pressed next to her at the counter, an ice cube on his lower lip.

“I could try to spice it up I guess,” She shrugs, turning to stand shoulder-to-shoulder with him against the counter’s edge, “Don’t tell anyone this but I actually don’t dislike your hair. Like, at all.”

“Woah, this feels like treason!”

“I said, don’t tell anyone!” she giggles, drumming her fingers against one side of her mug, “I will always and forever be a proponent of short hair Peter Parker, but… your long hair puts up a good fight. Even if it always looks like a kid having a bad day on a seesaw because it’s never evenly distributed on top of your head.”

“If you have to explain your metaphors, they’re not good.”  
“You want those three annoying things yet?”  
“Well, I was told I would eat my words tonight from the taste of your tea, so…”  
MJ’s head tips forward in a laugh, her nose practically inside her mug. She takes a breath and turns her head to look at him, arms raised with her tea just inches away from her lips.

“Ah, shit,” she grumbles, eyes dancing over his face.

“What?”

“I can’t do it,” she bites her bottom lip, “The more time I spend with you, the more impossible it gets to find things to dislike about you. And trust me, I’m looking.”

The warm mug in his hands does not help the way his whole body feels on fire right now.

She adds with a huff, “Even your floppy hair and tacky mugs and proneness to getting locked out of your apartment only increase just how unfairly charming you are.”

“Where is MJ and what have you done with her?”

“I’m serious,” she giggles, “Or maybe it’s just the tea. Relaxing me.”

“That must be it.”

“It would only be fair for you to drink some now and return the favor,” she nudges one shoulder against his.

“Is it safe yet?”

MJ tucks the mug under her nose for a second then hums, “Hmm, count to 10.”

“I’m not counting to 10!”

“Do you not know how?”

Peter huffs and his breath sends a ripple across the top of his tea. He decides to blow on it again for good measure.

“I think that was 10…” she leans close to him and whispers with a giggle.

“If I die just because you’re trying to prove a point about tea—”

“Stop being dramatic,” she lifts her mug and clinks the side against his, “But I’m gonna win this argument. Cheers!” and gulps down a swig of hot tea.

Peter mirrors her, eyes to the side watching her as he pulls the mug to his lip and takes a slower, cooler sip.

After a deep breath he turns and says, “I’m only confessing this because you so bravely shared that you were wrong about my long hair, but,” he smirks, “This is actually really good.”

“When are you going to learn, Peter, I am never wrong!” she laughs and takes another sip.

“So what kind of fancy tea is this?”

“Chamomile.”

“Isn’t that the animal that changes colors?”

“Chameleon,” she yells and swats his shoulder while he laughs. She leans off the counter and starts walking towards her couch, mug clutched between both hands. When she’s a few steps away and Peter hasn’t moved, she turns her head back, “You coming?”

“Where?”

“We’re not going to spend the rest of my victory standing next to my kitchen sink,” she says, and sits in the corner of the couch, an elbow on one armrest and her dog hopping at her feet. She pats the cushion next to her and looks over at Peter, then adds with a smile, “Come make yourself at home, Parker.”

She says it so easily he’s sure he must be dreaming.

_Home._

Just like tea, he thinks he could get used to that.

* * *

The next morning, Peter is shrugging his coat over his shoulder and fumbling with his key, frantic and off balance, to lock his door on his way to work.

“First day with those hands, Parker?” Peter suddenly feels his favorite neighbor reach an arm around his side and take the key.

“Uh, hey, good morning,” he says back, still entirely too flustered to manage anything more intelligent, then stepping to the side to let her turn the key in the lock, “Thank you.”

“No problem, it’s what I’m here for,” she smiles.

When the key clicks out of the lock, Peter leans forward to take it back from her, but apparently, MJ shares the idea and leans forward at the same time. It all happens too quickly for him to stop himself, so next thing he knows, he’s bumped square into her shoulder.

He stumbles back with little force, much less than he hoped honestly, because now he’s just stuck with his forehead mere centimeters away from hers and he hasn’t been awake long enough to properly coach himself out of making obvious heart eyes.

“Hey, your breath…” she whispers against his cheek.

“What about it?”

“Did you drink tea this morning?” One of MJ’s eyebrows shoots up inquisitively to match her signature smirk.

“And what if I did?”

She stays still a moment, still pressed right up against Peter on his side of their tiny little end of the hallway, and his whole body is screaming at her to move so he doesn’t do something stupid like confess his undying love for her at 8am on a Wednesday morning. But she doesn’t move, and a stupid slip gets harder to avoid with her tiny flutter of her lashes.

Finally, she answers, softly, “Well, if you had tea this morning, that would make my chances of getting you to come over for more tea tonight a lot lower.”

Peter could fall through the creaky hardwood flooring and it wouldn’t come close to the sudden swoosh of his heart.

But he’s feeling more confident every time she decides to pull one of these flirty little stunts (they are flirting, right? That’s what this is? Peter could honestly not tell you since he can’t remember the last time he actually flirted, but he thinks this is what they are doing, though he could totally be misreading the whole situation and—yeah, he’ll just ask Betty as soon as he leaves the hallway). So he answers “Really? How bad is it looking?”

“I don’t know, you’re better at numbers than me, but I think it’s probably 70/30. 30 you show, 70 you ditch me for coffee.”

“Yeah you’re right,” he says, “I am better at numbers than you. Because it’s actually looking like a solid 100% chance of me showing. No coffee.”

She lets out a short breath and backs away slightly.

“You win this time, Parker,” she smiles, pushing one hand in her pocket and turning to walk down the hallway. She points one finger up to shake at him, her back turned, “Don’t get used to it.”

(Betty confirmed it was, indeed, flirting, even if neither of them are acknowledging it. The fact should excite him, but his terrified nervous energy that rattles inside him when he shows up to her door after work is enough to counter-act every last cool thing he’s said in all the weeks he’s known her).

* * *

 

**_I’m lonely._ **

_I’m sorry?_

**_Come over!!_ **

_it’s almost 2 am, michelle_

**_Full name, someone’s mad…_ **

**_Did I interrupt your beauty sleep?_ **

_I don’t need beauty sleep_

**_Shit I guess youre right_ **

**_Can you come over and celebrate you being right with my new pomegranate oolong tea?_ **

**_Please._ **

_But my bed is so comfortable_

**_So is mine_ **

_So we should stay in our beds and continue this tomorrow morning_

**_Spidey misses you._ **

_It’s not fair when you bring your dog into it…_

**_Its not fair that I miss you at this ungodly hour but here we are_ **

_…_

_Unlock your door_

 

_ok I’m at this store_

_in the middle of nowhere_

_there’s literally no one in here_

_except me and this lady who looks like she owns too many cats_

**_Be nice to Beatrice she gives me discounts_ **

_shit_

_she better give me a discount_

_why is this tea so expensive_

_!!!_

**_Because its good!_ **

_make sure i got all the ones you wanted:_

_coconut matcha_

_ginger lemongrass_

_jasmine chamomile_

_is that the one you gave me the first time?_

**_They grow up so fast  :’)_ **

_Why did you send me a smiley with a nose_

**_That’s a tear_ **

_No its not it’s a nose_

**_:-)_ **

**_That’s a nose_ **

**_:’)_ **

**_That’s a tear_ **

**_A happy tear_ **

_we’ll settle this when I get home…_

_because I’m right_

_but also earl grey_

_that’s all 4?_

**_You’re the best! :’)_ **

_Stop it._

_or I’m never letting you send me here ever again_

_the lights keep blinking and Beatrice definitely has it out for me_

_her eyes followed me every aisle I went down_

**_youre such a baby_ **

_it’s scary in here_

_sketchy tea shop_

_they probably do illegal business out back_

**_Okay true crime detective Parker._ **

**_I’ll take you back next time we need tea and i’ll hold your hand the whole time so you’re not scared_ **

_:’(_

_*:’)_

 

 

_Are you okay?_

**_The grammar_ **

**_Too good_ **

**_Who kidnapped you?_ **

_mj I could hear you coughing from the hallwayl_

_it sounds like you lost a lung_

**_I’m fine it’s the tv_ **

**_I’m watching a medical show_ **

_lies_

_you hate medical shows_

_unlock your door_

**_Seriously Peter I’m fine._ **

_its either you or new york suddenly became prone to earthquakes_

**_It’s just a cold ._ **

**_I think I got it from a gross new intern who was never taught how to wash their hands_ **

_I’m coming over_

_unlock your door_

**_Then you’ll get it too_ **

_if its just a cold then that shouldn’t be a problem_

**_You are_ **

_your favorite neighbor_

**_Annoying_ **

**_And more fun when you didn’t know how to talk back to me_ **

_mj please come open your door for me_

_I’ll bring tea_

_I was saving this new blueberry flavor I found but we can have it now_

_It smells really good_

**_Can you_ **

**_Bring your mug_ **

**_Mines in my sink from the morning I didn’t have the strength to wash it_ **

_I knew you were sick_

_you’re so stubborn_

_WAIT don’t move_

_don’t get up_

_I have your spare_

_you left it here when I had to walk Spidey the other night_

**_I can walk from the couch to the door loser_ **

_don’t_

_be there in 30 seconds_

**_I counted 42_ **

 

 

**_I know I’ve admitted to being a secret long hair fan but-_ **

**_It looks actually horrendous today._ **

_when did you see me today?_

**_You were getting your mail._ **

**_I was late to work or I would have stopped_ **

_it’s fine_

_Good morning, then!_

**_It’s noon…_ **

_yeah but I missed saying good morning to you_

**_Nerd_ **

**_Anyway_ **

**_Your hair_ **

_I’m not gonna lie even I hate it today_

_usually I shower in the morning and get it semi decent_

_but my shower has been a pain all weekend and it fully gave out yesterday_

_so_

_au natural_

**_Why didn’t you come over???_ **

_what_

**_My shower works._ **

_I didn’t wanna bother you_

**_What’s mine is yours kid_ **

**_You still have my spare_ **

_is that a question_

_because yes_

**_I might get home late but just go in when you get home_ **

**_You know where the towels are_ **

_seriously MJ?_

**_Its no big deal_ **

**_I’m doing the world a favor_ **

**_Bed head_ **

_I owe you_

**_Tea_ **

_I owe you tea?_

**_No I have tea I just wanna drink it with you when I get back_ **

**_My boss is coming I gotta go_ **

**_I’ll see u when I get home bad hair boy_ **

 

_Chinese tonight?_

**_You read my mind_ **

_You’re home already right_

_If you call I can pick it up on my way back_

**_You got it_ **

**_Usual?_ **

_Yes ma’am_

_…_

_ok On my Way!_

_why does that autocorrect like that_

_On my way!_

_I just wanna say omw_

_yes!_

_…_

_em_

_they have tea here_

**_I know_ **

_why have we never had it_

_I’m getting some_

_…_

_I’m walking into the building_

_are the tea mugs at your place or mine?_

**_Mine!_ **

_k cool unlock your door_

**_Already open_ **

**_I’ll have you know I deleted a smiley face before I sent it._ **

**_And do not say you can just smile at me in person_ **

_But I can_

_And it’s cuter than a :)_

**_Debatable…_ **

 

 

**_Come over!!_ **

_funny how…_

_i’m already outside_

**_:’)_ **

_ok warranted_

_can we have tea_

**_funny how…_ **

**_its already brewing_ **

_:’)_

 

 

* * *

“When did you get the money to hire someone to clean this place?”

Peter shuts the door behind his Aunt May, who steps into Peter’s apartment for the first time since he moved in four months ago. Her eyes scan the small living space, pillows on the couch neatly lined up, no dirty dishes in the sink, chairs around the kitchen table all pushed in.

Granted, it has nothing to do with the fact that Peter’s picked up some tidy life skills and in fact, everything to do with the fact that he’s only in here to sleep, get dressed, and shower. And even that third one doesn’t always apply.

But he’d rather sit through The Talk again rather than tell Aunt May he’s been spending all his time across the hall.

It’s not like it’s on purpose. It’s totally circumstantial.

Still doesn’t sound too great to your Aunt who doesn’t understand the friends vs _friends_ thing.

“Is it so hard to believe that I’m just neat?”

“Yes,” Ned chimes in from his seat at the small round table across from the kitchen.

“You’re supposed to be on my side!” Peter yells, hanging up May’s coat on a hook by the door.

“And that’s why he’s my favorite,” she walks behind the table and bends to kiss Ned on the cheek, “How is everything, honey? All packed?”

“Getting there,” he hums as May sits down next to him, and Peter joins, “I left most of my things in boxes from mine and Peter’s place, because I knew I wouldn’t be here for that long before the new apartment, but Betty just has so much stuff. I think things are multiplying when we’re asleep.”

“Oh my god, I can’t believe my boy is moving into his own apartment!” May squeals, rubbing one hand over Ned’s arm sweetly.

Peter tips back in his chair, eyes wide, “What do you call this?” He gestures around his apartment.

“Oh, be quiet,” she waves him off.

“Are you sure Ned isn’t your real nephew? Because I feel like something may have gotten lost in translation here.”

“It’s different. You still feel like a kid to me in here. Plus, it’s just a lot harder for me to imagine you growing up. But Ned… Ned’s apartment has a guest room. That’s when you know you’ve hit peak adult hood.”

“My couch is like a guest room,” Peter shrugs at his worn-out, lopsided couch.

“I’ve slept there a few times, it’s actually not bad,” Ned muses, looking over at the couch too.

“Nice to know someone at this table loves me.”

“Peter, if you keep pouting, you know what happens next,” Ned laughs across the table, “May breaks out the kissing monster.”

“Oh no—”

“Oh my god, the kissing monster, you used to hate that!” she beams, remembering the way she used to chase Peter around the house when he was little, scoop him up and smother him in kisses, to his boyish dismay. “Spider-man has battled some real criminals in his years of heroics, but little do people know, his real arch nemesis, super villain or all super villains, is Aunt May the Kissing Monster!”

Ned cackles in his seat, one hand over his mouth at May’s dramatics and Peter squirms from her grip but misses narrowly as she hugs him tight and places a kiss on the side of his forehead.

“When do I get too old for this?”

“Never,” she says, “Not even if you fill your guest rooms with kids of your own I can torture.”

“I think that’s a little too adult for right now,” Ned laughs again.

“I meant in the future,” she starts, “Though I would never love you any less whenever or if it happens at all.” She smiles and squeezes one of Peter’s hands in her own, then suddenly yawns and speaks through it, her syllables stretched out, “You kids are perfect.”

“What were you up to last night?” Peter jokes.

“I actually was out, for your information.”

“Get it, Aunt May!” Ned yells.

“Why didn’t you tell me, we could have picked a different morning?” Peter starts.

“No, it’s fine I wanted to see you. It wasn’t that late, just dinner with some friends,” May drums her fingers on the table, “I meant to grab coffee on the way here but forgot I don’t pass one on my way to this new place.”

“Oh, hold up, Peter’s about to go off on all the benefits of drinking tea instead of coffee,” Ned giggles, “He’s a changed man.”

“I like tea now, so? And it does have a lot of health benefits,” Peter stands up from his chair, shooting Ned a pointed look, “But I’ve still got coffee. I’ll make you some, May?”

“I’m fine, sweetie, sit down.”

“It takes me like 2 minutes, I got it,” he waves, running over to his kitchen. He pulls open the small cabinet door and reaches to grab a mug, but is met with only air. He pats around the cabinet, exactly where the mug should be, but comes up empty.

MJ’s. It’s at MJ’s. They’re all at MJ’s.

“So, when did you discover tea? I never thought I’d live to see a day Peter Parker woke up nondependent on coffee!”

“Uh,” Peter mumbles, back towards Ned and May, trying to think of a good an answer and a way around having all his mugs currently sitting in MJ’s kitchen sink. “Someone at work recommended it to me.”

“Well that’s very nice, you seem more relaxed.”

Now this, he could do. MJ had schooled him on hundreds of different types of tea and all their unique uses, benefits, and flavors.

“Peppermint tea is one of the best flavors, really relaxing,” he says over one shoulder, “They have it in the regular supermarket so it’s really easy to buy and make.” He opens another cabinet to his left, in search of something else to put May’s hot coffee in, “But there’s this little tea shop a few blocks west of my office that has some really crazy herbs and flavors. They have this whole section for calming teas that we’ve been working our way through, and so far the passion flower is my favorite.”

There, he spots, on his toes, an old, ugly orange mug an ex-girlfriend left him with years ago that he’s always meant to throw away, but is so, so glad now that he didn’t.

Thank you, Gwen Stacy, wherever you are. Good for nothing except your terrible choice in mugs.

He pulls the mug down and quickly starts the instant coffee maker.

“What’s your co-worker’s favorite?”

“Hmm?” Peter hums absently.

“Well, you said ‘that _we’ve_ been working through’ so I assumed you go to this little shop with that co-worker that introduced you to tea,” May says, “What’s their favorite?”

“Oh, I don’t know,” Peter starts, very glad at least someone kept up with the flimsy lie while he watches the steaming dark liquid pour into the mug in front of him. “She likes rose tea a lot, but we don’t have it often. The rose petals are tricky to work with and I like sweeter teas.”

“Ooooo, a _girl_ co-worker!” Ned coos sarcastically as Peter pours a little milk in the orange mug, then walks back to the table, placing it in front of Aunt May.

And, it’s not technically a lie, since MJ is a girl and she does like rose tea and she doesn’t drink it very often because she picked up on the fact that Peter didn’t really like it and she’s secretly way more of a softie than she’s ever let on.

But she is not a co-worker. She is a _friend_. Loose term.

“Shut up,” he scoffs with a slight smile at Ned.

“Hey, what ever happened to that girl I saw you with before dinner a few months ago?” May says, bringing the cup to her lips and taking a small sip before immediately gasping, “Ooh, that’s hot.”

“You gotta count to at least 10 first,” Peter says offhandedly, that little swoop in his chest checking in again, then continues, “And I don’t know, that was months ago, how do you even remember that?”

 _He_ certainly remembers it, but he wasn’t counting on anyone else remembering it too.

“She was really cute!”

“How cute?” Ned wags his eyebrows at Peter mockingly.

“We’re not having this conversation,” Peter crosses his arms over his chest as his two guests continue to pester him.

“She was definitely guest room material,” May nods.

“Oh, that’s serious, where’s she from?”

“Somewhere nearby, he ran into her leaving for work, right?”

“Again, how do you remember all this?” Peter scoffs, “But uh, yeah, she’s on my floor, but I haven’t run into her again.”

Which again, is technically not a lie, since that morning he _literally_ ran into her, full-body collision. And he hasn’t done that exactly again, so…

“Such a shame, she was really cute,” May shrugs, and eyes Peter, “Is it safe to drink now sir? I think I counted to 100.”

Peter laughs back in his chair as May sips her coffee and gets Ned started on some other topic of conversation. He gets a moment while they’re conversing to pull his phone from his back pocket and sees a new message on the screen.

 

It’s a picture of MJ on her couch, sweatshirt sleeves pulled over her wrists, practically to her fingers, with an ‘I heart NY’ mug pulled up over her face.

**_Found this cute mug, might keep it._ **

_cute mug?_

_did you hit your head this morning??_

**_Sorry, stupid autocorrect._ **

**_Found this cute BOY with an UGLY MUG_ **

**_Might keep him_ **

**_Give the mug to my dog_ **

_cute boy approves_

**_Who said I was talking about you?_ **

 

 

_4\. All your gray sweatpants. Or any color sweatpants. And your t-shirts. Honestly, just guard your entire wardrobe while you’re at it._

 

Peter’s crappy apartment finally decides to live up to its name on the eve of his six-month living in it.

Things had been going fine, really, so the “Peter’s crappy apartment” thing was only one part leftover from trying to guilt Ned out of making him live on his own, other part making up excuses he didn’t need for going over to MJ’s. 

But standing at his door one Thursday night, Peter realizes he probably spoke too soon. Or maybe he jinxed it. He was never really superstitious, but something about having your ceiling fall on your head at 11pm really makes you reevaluate your beliefs.

The night had started like most nights they’re not together: one of them finds some reason to knock on the other’s door (you know, like idiots, because nothing says ‘please say you’re kind of hopelessly in love with me too’ like asking to borrow laundry detergent you already own plenty of). 

“Hey, MJ,” Peter swings his door open to reveal the only face he’s used to seeing on the other side of it, his breathy expression still like reflex whenever he sees those curls.

“Evening, dork. Nice shirt,” she nods down to his large white t-shirt, with a cartoonish picture of a tricycle and block letters that read ‘will third wheel for tacos’. An anniversary gift courtesy of everyone’s favorite duo. Peak levels of embarrassing, but, it was one of the comfiest t-shirts he owned, and sometimes sacrifices had to be made.

“Thanks.”

“Hope I didn’t interrupt the beauty sleep.”

“I thought we established I didn’t need any beauty sleep,” Peter smirks, his head tilting to the side and hitting the side of the door, just above where his forearm rests against it.

“It was a moment of weakness on my part,” she smirks back, rocks forward on her toes before continuing, more seriously, “Could I borrow 2 eggs?”

“Borrow? Were you planning on giving it back?”

“Smart ass.”

“Emphasis on the smart.”

(Peter surely imagines the way her eyes flit down for a split second when he says it.)

She refocuses on his eyes and bites her bottom lip, “Okay boy genius, can I please _use and not give back_ 2 of your eggs?”

“That’s my new favorite nickname,” he taps his other hand on the front of the door to push the whole thing behind him, signaling her to walk in.

“Don’t get used to it.”

The next moments happen in slow motion, and unfortunately have nothing to do with the view Peter has of MJ’s loose black pajama shorts and green sweatshirt combination. He’s still got a hand on the door behind him, just a crack still open, and MJ’s 2 steps from the couch when suddenly a giant chunk of the off-white ceiling plaster crumbles and falls off, er, down.

No, he was not kidding when he said his ceiling literally fell on him.

“What the hell?!”

MJ uses less words and more shrieks, settles on a loud screech and jumps back before the ceiling thuds mere inches away from her face. The section of plaster is on the couch and its neighboring areas continue to crumble and dust, breaking a good ¾ of a lamp and ruining the coffee table in the process. To make matters worse, the gaping hole has exposed a leaky pipe, and water starts bouncing off every hard surface it hits and spraying, which also ruins the couch and rug while the crappy apartment decides to go at it.

She’s slowly backed into Peter, still standing by the door, until her back is against the front of one of his shoulders.

“What is happening?” Peter yells again as his mini apocalypse erupts before him.

MJ doesn’t really answer, just continues to gape at the ceiling that once was.

And miraculously, despite all the shit that’s seemed to happen in the past 30-seconds being literally enough to grab his passport and a one-way ticket to Canada, Peter notices the feather light touch of one of MJ’s hands mindlessly swinging back at her side and resting right on the side of his thigh.

“Ah fuck it, I don’t have the mental capacity for this right now,” she says, and then, the moment the whole world (Peter) has been patiently (anxiously) waiting for, she grabs his hand. Grabs his hand at her side and decidedly and abruptly turns them away from what Peter assumes qualifies as a pretty high priority-type fiasco, and tries to push him out the door.

“Are we just not gonna do anything—”

“You have your keys?” She ignores him, looking to her left and spotting them in their place on the counter, uses her free hand to reach over and grab them.

“We can’t—MJ—that’s—”

“Not our problem,” she says, looking him dead in the eye.

“That’s _totally_ my problem,” Peter squeals, barely managing words, his face probably already three shades of enhanced red flush, “Aren’t you supposed to be the responsible one here?”

“Sorry for skipping class the day they taught me what to do when my friend’s ceiling almost knocked me unconscious!” She yells back, eyes growing just as wide.

“What do you want us to do? Just leave it?” He can’t even believe he’s entertaining the thought himself, watching a pipe spurt water all over his couch that he always hated but feels oddly offended that his ceiling decided to ruin.

MJ huffs, her chest against him, and ruins the whole responsible thing he was doing for a hot sec there because now all he wants to do is listen to the way her heart beats right against his when she’s pushed up against him in his crappy apartment doorway. She squares her jaw towards him, then says, “Parker, I call you an idiot at least three times a day, and news flash: I don’t usually mean it,” something crashes on the floor behind her, but Peter barely registers it, “But, for once, could you _please_ just be an idiot and run away from your self-destructive ceiling with me?”

Peter gulps, “Why?”

“Because I’m sleep deprived and hungry and you look nice in gray sweatpants and I’m actually kind of terrified that the same thing could be happening in my apartment right now and I need food before I can have a coherent thought on what to do about it,” she huffs out in one long-winded breath, then smiles and adds, “Also, I’m tired of being the only responsible one in this relationship and would like to share the title of hallway idiot for the night.”

Peter’s eyes flutter shut for a moment as he lets her words all mush together in his brain. He has to do it with his eyes closed because the look she gives him should be illegal, the way it fires at his insides. No one should be allowed to look at a person like that without expecting that person to immediately wanna jump their bones. And that is not a thought he should be having now. Or ever.

“I need to change my shirt,” he mumbles.

Her nose crinkles in a little smile, then she pushes him back by the shoulder, into his apartment, “Hurry up!”

Peter stumbles back and starts to move back quickly, stops to pick up a throw pillow from one of the chairs and clutches it over his head, elbows to his ears. It offers no protection whatsoever, but it makes MJ laugh and that’s the only reason behind it anyway, safety be damned.

“Start being an idiot _after_ we leave!”

“It’s protection!” He yells to her, running around the backside of the plaster-ridden, leaky pipe-soaked couch, “It’s a war zone out here!”

He hears her laugher echo around the corner as he runs into his room, quickly tries to grab any available, non-pun laden t-shirt. Just as he’s pulling one he thinks is safe out of a drawer, he hears a crash and a yell from outside.

“Peter!” MJ’s voice is muffled, but he can still hear that it’s laced with laughter, “Your apartment is totally fucked!”

So he says screw it, and tucks the new shirt under in an elbow, re-arms himself with his pillow shield, and runs back to the door.

“You didn’t even change your shirt!” she giggle-yells (his new favorite sound) as he makes it back up to her, already pushing the door open.

“Do you wanna leave or not?”

She nods and, with keys in hand, shuts the door behind him, locking themselves out from whatever new circle of hell they just left.

She’s still doing this mirthy little giggle, and starts walking quickly down their hallway. Confused, Peter looks between her and her door, “Are we—”

“I’m not going out with you in that shirt,” she seems to answer his unspoken question.

“We’re going _out_?”

“Not in that shirt, we’re not!”

“Well, you wouldn’t let me change in my room.”

“C’mon, I’m hungry, just change it while we walk!” she turns to face him, just a few steps away, one arm outstretched towards him, her hand making a grabbing motion that makes Peter’s brain short circuit because it seems to imply she wants to hold his hand again. Or he’s hopeless at reading cues and she just wants him to sing Baby Shark.

But he finds it somewhere deep within whatever reserve he’s got for times MJ makes him brain dead to stutter, “What, I’m not—I’m not changing in our hallway!”

He starts running towards her to keep up with her pace, and with a distinct eye roll she turns away, “I’m not looking, just do it. The longer without food, the longer without a responsible idea from me and therefore, the longer we leave your apartment to cave-in on itself.”

“You think it was _that_ bad?” he asks, seriously worried, both about his apartment and the fact that he’s actually got a hand on the bottom of his shirt, ready to pull it off and change, mid-run down his dimly-lit apartment hallway.

“No, obviously I wouldn’t have left it if I did,” she yells over her shoulder.

And maybe he’s got a weak spot for the good old curl-bounce, because the second she flips her chin to facing away from him and her long curls flounce on her back, he’s barely registering himself lift his shirt off over his head.

He’s torn between keeping up with her as she runs down the hallway to the elevator at the opposite end and putting the new shirt on, because he’s having more difficulty than he anticipated multitasking.

“MJ, hold up, I’m—”

She turns around to hear the rest of his sentence but all words die on his tongue because his shirt is practically stuck half over his head and on one shoulder and his gray sweatpants are hung low on his waist and he is hyper-aware of these facts when she doesn’t look away.

“You’re literally a child,” she laughs and steps forward, reaching her two hands up to pull Peter’s new, plain black t-shirt down his chest, finishing what he was obviously too flustered to do. She then goes back to grab his hand (and Peter wishes she’d give him some type of warning before she does it) and pull him towards the just opening elevator.

When the doors shut and she presses the button for the lobby, they’re pressed shoulder to shoulder in the middle of the elevator, in a stunning silence. Peter lets out the deepest breath that he’s been holding in probably since she knocked on his door tonight, then flits his eyes up to hers.

She just so happens to be looking at him too.

Kind of a cool thing.

There’s a beat of silence as the elevator moves at an abnormally slow pace down a level, then another, and before they hit the first floor, MJ’s nose scrunches and her eyes crinkle around the edges as she bursts into a fit of laughter.

She’s been laughing all night, uncharacteristic really, but its 11pm and Peter’s ceiling just fell on her so he doesn’t question it at all, just makes a mental note to find less dangerous ways to elicit the bubbly chime of her laugh more often, because it’s fighting its way up to be one of his favorite sounds.

Peter obviously cracks under her gaze and laughs just as loudly with her, their laughter mixing together and echoing off the very quiet lobby walls as they return to their run out the building. Peter feels like a teenager in a rom-com where he realizes he’s finally in love with the best friend after a wild, irresponsible night on the town, only they haven’t even started being really irresponsible yet, and Peter’s pretty sure he’s known that he’s loved MJ since she first smiled.

No big deal or anything. _Friends_.

“I can’t believe we’re doing this, this is really not like you, MJ,” Peter laughs as they exit their apartment building, and she pulls him around the corner to the left.

“Honestly, I don’t know what came over me just now,” she giggles, “Maybe the hole in your ceiling exposed some weird, toxic chemical that blurred my judgement.”

“If you wanted to do something fun with me, all you had to do was ask. You didn’t have to get my ceiling to collapse,” he nudges back.

“Wrecking your apartment to spend time with me is exactly the kind of stunt _you’d_ pull Parker.”

“My shower’s already broken and my heater needs to be kicked like 5 times before it turns on,” Peter deadpans, as she continues to speed them down blocks of late-night New York traffic, “I did not need more excuses.”

“So I guess that just means your neighbors hate you.”

“You’re my neighbor,” he says, stopping at a crosswalk.

“And I hate you,” she smirks. “I mean like,” MJ points above her, “The neighbors on the fourth floor.”

“Those aren’t neighbors!”

“Then what are they?” the light signals for them to walk and she starts, Peter chasing after her as usual.

“I don’t know, not my neighbors,” he shrugs when he catches up. She just shakes her head.

“Well whoever they are, their pipes broke your apartment.”

“I don’t think they planned it.”

“How do you know? Maybe they’re like, secret agents sent to kill you,” she quirks her eyebrows up mischievously and Peter sighs.

“They’d have to try a lot harder than a leaky pipe if that were the case,” he says, “I don’t even know their name. Or names.”

“Maybe this was just a ploy to get you out of the apartment without suspicion and they’ll steal your most valuable hidden family heirloom.”

“I was gonna stay, you’re the one who dragged me out of there,” Peter smiles, “So, I guess that means you really are the neighbor that hates me and is plotting to either kill me or rob me.”

“Please, Parker,” she pulls him by his forearm to the side and they turn a corner, “I know there is absolutely nothing worth stealing in there.”

“So you’re gonna kill me?”

“I was gonna wait until later but now that you’re onto me, it speeds up my timeline,” she winks at him and wraps an arm around his neck, her elbow resting on his shoulder in a mock-headlock. Peter can’t help his giggle when she does it, then she leans down and whispers, “Any last words?”

Peter hums then whispers back, “Yeah, uh, where are we going to eat?”

Laughing she pushes him away and out of her hold, then continues to walk down the long and busy night-time street.

After a few minutes of walking in silence, bar the city noises around them, MJ says, “We’ll call maintenance first thing in the morning about getting it fixed.”

“What fixed?” because there’s really nothing his brain can focus on that’s not MJ whenever MJ is around. Even holes in ceilings.

“Don’t take the idiot thing too literally,” she laughs. “I’ve fixed a small leak in my apartment before, but I don’t think my duct tape can fix that mess.”

“You fixed a leak with duct tape?”

“Only for like, a day, so I could sleep without the annoying sound every drip made.”

“I don’t know how I’m going to sleep with an actual tsunami coming out of my ceiling,” Peter jokes.

“Okay, drama queen, it wasn’t that bad,” she rolls her eyes, “But you’re definitely not sleeping there.” She stops suddenly and turns towards the door of a small diner, barely noticeable tucked in between all the other storefronts. “Get in, loser, we’re here.”

Peter obliges and walks in while she holds the door, steps to the side to wait for her to join him. The diner is lit up in a florescent glow, the walls lined with booths and vintage city street signs, a small counter with blue stools along the back. It’s cozy in a way you want a diner to be, and smells like coffee and waffles and grease.

“Do my eyes deceive me or is that my MJ?” a voice calls from behind the counter in front of them.

“Hi, Miss Dee,” MJ waves a little and walks up to the woman, who rounds out from behind the counter to give MJ a tight hug.

“It has been too long, girl! Got me worried, are you eating enough?”

“Yes, ma’am,” MJ says, her smile bright.

“Ugh, when are you gonna teach the rest of us how to look that beautiful at this ungodly hour of the night,” she laughs, stepping back to look at MJ and affectionately squeeze her shoulders.

“You’re all terrible for my ego here, that’s why I have to stop coming,” MJ laughs, then points to a wall with a few papers pinned up, “Your little shrine doesn’t help.”

“We’re proud! Our chocolate milkshakes and curly fries practically sponsored every brilliant word you write,” The woman Peter has determined to be ‘Miss Dee’ gushes over MJ again, then sighs, “Well, I won’t keep you waiting, Miss Times. I know it’s been a while, but I’m assuming you don’t need the menu…”

“Yeah, just one for him,” MJ points a hand back to Peter, then starts walking away, no comment on the subject, and Peter assumes this is his cue to follow, but also assumes Miss Dee won’t be letting that happen.

“He’s with you?” she perks, eyes wide, looking between Peter, rooted in place with an uncomfortable smile and MJ, who is still walking towards an empty booth in the back corner.

“Yeah, this is Peter, my friend from the building I told you about,” she calls before turning a corner and leaving Peter’s line of sight.

“I feel like you used the wrong kind of _friend_ ,” she smirks at Peter, “Nice to meet you, honey.”

“Yes, hi,” Peter mutters, then holds out a hand to shake hers, “Nice to meet you too.”

“What kind of manners does this girl have, leaving you here?” she says, grabbing one giant plastic menu for him, “C’mon I’ll show you to her little hideout.”

“Thanks,” Peter sighs nervously, then follows the woman, “It smells really good in here.”

“Pretty sure our chef can sense MJ coming from 3 blocks away and already fires up her French fries,” she laughs, then adds, “I don’t know why she told me to bring you this menu, I already know what she’s gonna make you order.”

“I’ve gotten good at pretending to look at menus for a few minutes before she just picks whatever we’re eating.”

“Smart boy,” Miss Dee pats one hand on his shoulder, “We heard a lot about you last time she visited. Though, she wildly undersold how cute you are.”

Peter feels his cheeks flare a hot red and he tucks his chin, sheepishly, “Well, that’s because MJ usually can’t see past how awful my hair looks.”

“Oh please, I heard about that too. She’s like a third grader with a crush,” she chuckles then looks over at Peter, “She likes you very much, you know that right?”

Peter definitely doesn’t know that, not at all.

So he just shrugs and says, “I’m really lucky to be friends with her.”

“She’s never brought someone here before,” she taps the menu in her hand, “She’s very lucky to have _you_.”

Just as Peter’s heart decides to explode, he spots MJ, tucked into a small booth in the very back corner, windows surrounding her, her chin tucked in her hand and elbow resting on the tabletop.

Miss Dee stops them a few steps back, and leans to Peter to whisper, “Since you’re probably getting the standard MJ order, anything you’d like to add, Peter style?”

Peter bites the bottom lip of a smile, then looks at her and says, “What can I have?”

“We’re a diner honey, you name it we got it. Though I wouldn’t recommend the fish.”

Peter laughs, “This might sound weird, but I haven’t had a grilled cheese in years, and I think I’d really like one.”

“Excellent choice, sir,” she says, then they cross the remaining few steps to MJ’s booth. Miss Dee looks at MJ, hands on her hips, “Excuse me, Miss Jones, just leaving your boy all alone up front.”

“I had a long day, I was tired, wanted to sit down,” MJ shrugs, “Figured he’d find me.”

Miss Dee shakes her head at MJ, then smiles and says, “Am I going the usual, for two tonight?”

MJ hums, drums her fingers on the table, “You know what, I’m feeling fancy tonight, we just escaped death, so let’s splurge. Onion rings too.”

“Oh man, getting fancy out here,” Miss Dee laughs sarcastically, then MJ holds up a hand to add something.

“Also, Peter likes grilled cheese.”

Did she just—he didn’t even know he wanted grilled cheese until like, 30-seconds ago, how did she know he wanted it?

“You got it, kiddos,” Miss Dee smiles and turns, but not before shooting one small, knowing look at Peter.

He’s like, totally fucked. The girl ordered him grilled cheese and he’s ready to get down on knee for her. Send help.

“She’s really nice,” Peter smiles, nodding back to where the waitress has walked off.

“Would be lost without Miss Dee, that’s for sure,” MJ smiles too, “She’d probably know what to do about our problem.”

“The sound of grilled cheese does make that gaping hole we left seem much less daunting,” Peter laughs, then leans his forearms on the table, “How’d you know I wanted that?”

“I pay attention sometimes, more than I like admitting,” she smirks.

“So, come here often?” Peter says in a distorted deep voice, a fake smoulder-y expression that makes MJ tip her head back in one of those pretty laughs. Peter adds this to his mental checklist of all the possible ways he can elicit the sound.

“I started coming here during college, freshman year, when I thought I was literally losing my mind working on a paper, and was sure French fries were the only cure.”

“Obviously, you’re not wrong.”

“They’re open 24-hours, so I started attempting all my all-nighters here. But they knew what they were doing, started giving me caffeine-free tea to get me to fall asleep right here in this booth,” she smiles fondly, “I was here at least 3 times a week all 4 years. It was way better than the library for working because they knew when I was having bad days and gave me extra whipped cream on my milkshake.”

“It’s really nice they hang up all your articles.”

“Oh, they’re so annoying,” MJ shakes her head fondly, “Milkshakes are half priced every day I publish something.”

“C’mon that’s the sweetest thing I’ve ever heard!” Peter yells.

“Yeah, whatever, I’m still not used to it,” she nods, flustered. MJ’s never liked talking about herself, Peter’s known that, takes her a little longer to open up, whereas Peter was ready to spill his entire life story on day 3. It’s endearing, sweet to see her get shy every once in a while, and he smiles to himself thinking of that proud wall of pages, and considers starting one of his own.

MJ starts again, “I got the call the call for the New York Times job interview sitting right in this booth, and when I got assigned my first piece to write and had a crisis where I thought I totally screwed up every life choice that led me to this career and how I was totally not good enough, I was crying in this booth, then I wrote 95% of that article in this booth, and I held a hard copy of my first published article for the first time in this booth.”

“At this rate, you’ll get married here,” Peter laughs, his cheeks starting to stay in this permanent state of a squinty smile.

“Once you try the fries, I don’t think you’ll have a problem with that.”

* * *

Once Peter has stuffed himself with the best greasy diner food he’s ever tasted, and is hugged and kissed by probably six employees behind MJ like he’s family, he and MJ make the quiet walk back to the apartments.

“Thank you for dinner, or whatever that was,” Peter shrugs his hands in his pockets.

“Sure,” MJ nods, walking next to him, “I was only holding off on bringing you there because I knew they’d start to like you more than me.”

“Not possible.”

“Dude, it already happened,” she says, shaking her head, curls bouncing.

“Nah, you’re just saying that to make me feel better about the disaster of an apartment I’m about to walk back into.”

“Parker, there is no amount of free refills from waitresses that think you’re cute that could fix that apartment.”

Peter laughs, “Well, it was still nice to get some compliments.”

“Yeah, from women twice your age!”

“I don’t see many girls that are my age calling me cute.”

“I call you cute all the time,” MJ rolls her eyes, “Doesn’t mean anything.”

Peter tries not to let it show when his heart starts to shatter in a way similar to his ceiling.

He’s determined he’s actually the worst person alive at reading cues. So calling him cute doesn’t mean she thinks he’s cute? Now he’s second guessing every little thing she’s ever said or done to him, and he’s promptly stepping to the side to put more distance between their almost touching shoulders.

So, nervously, he tries to keep up conversation, “Really?”

“Yeah,” MJ shrugs, “Because you’re objectively cute.”

“What does that mean?”

“Thinking that you, Peter Parker, are cute isn’t really an opinion. It’s just like, who you are. Anyone and everyone comes to that same conclusion within 60-seconds of knowing you,” she keeps her eyes anywhere but him, but still speaks very calmly, like she’s dissecting an academic report, “If they really wanted to give you a compliment they’d try a little harder.”

 “Really?”

“Yeah, because there are things that make you cute that are worth mentioning. Like, I’d say, for example, your eyes,” MJ swings her hands at her side, “You know when I make a joke that isn’t really worth laughing at if I was telling it to anyone but you, but it’s you so when you smile your eyes get all crinkly on the edges.”

Peter’s heart has completely stopped for total opposite reasons now. But if she notices, she doesn’t act on it, because she keeps going, eyes on the sidewalk in front of them.

“Or the way your head flops to the side when you’re trying to eat sushi, and only sushi, like having your ear on your shoulder makes it easier. Or the fact that the voice you use to talk to my dog is the same one you use to talk to the unreasonably irritated old married couple that lives next to the elevator, and you have no idea that you’re doing it,” he notices her smile to herself, continuing on her tangent, arms waving and only occasionally peaking over to quickly glance at Peter. “And it’s honestly not fair that your ties are always a little crooked because every guy I used to think was hot with their pressed blazers and perfectly aligned ties suddenly look wrong to me. So wrong. Or you know when you hold your door open to talk to me across the hall with your forearm up over your head? Well, it pulls up the bottom of your shirt a little and so I pull my eyes up but I’m only met with an especially pronounced bicep and I have nowhere to settle other than your feet. Which are usually wearing hideous science pun socks.”

Peter’s eyes probably do the crinkly thing when he quirks his head to the side, openly mesmerized by every word coming out of MJ’s mouth and trying to figure out how best to rapidly develop a photographic memory.

MJ slows her step and blinks, seeming to finally realize what she’s just said, and very quickly mumbles, crossing her arms at her elbows, “I mean, just a few ideas. If I were to want to give you a compliment. Say you’re cute. Or whatever. You know?” she nods. Hugging her arms closer to her chest, “Damn, was it always this cold out here?”

“Oh uh,” Peter trips to keep up with her new rapid pace, and untucks the old t-shirt he had been carrying under his arm. He gently opens it up, reaches around, and drapes it over MJ’s shoulders, “Here you go.”

“I’m not wearing your third wheel shirt.”

“It’s cold, we’re only 2 blocks from home, you can do this,” he reassures jokingly, patting an arm on her shoulder before returning both hands to his pockets.

“Thanks,” she says quietly, fingers playing with the hem of the shirt on her shoulder.

“Thank _you_ ,” Peter smiles, “And just for the record, I totally don’t talk to Mr. and Mrs. Palmer in my dog voice.”

MJ laughs, “See, I told you, you have no idea you do it!”

“Because I just don’t!” he yells, “You have a dog voice too.”

“Yeah, one that I only use when I’m talking to dogs!”

“I’m pretty sure you’ve used it on me few times…”

“When you’re being an idiot,” MJ shrugs her shoulders up and pulls the t-shirt closer around her neck.

“Which we were very busy being tonight,” Peter adds pointedly, leaning closer to her shoulder, reestablishing he might not be as bad at social cues as he thought.

“It was a good night,” she hums, smiling down at her feet, “But we’re going to hate it when we try to wake up for work in a few hours.”

“Wait, speaking of—what were you doing that you needed 2 eggs at midnight on a Thursday?” Peter turns to face her as they start walking the last block before their apartments.

“Making cookies.”

“Why do you say that like it’s normal?”

“Because I hate baking cookies and always leave it until the last possible second. This was actually early for me, I usually just buy something the morning of.”

“Are you going to further explain or should I just smile and nod?”

MJ pushes Peter to the side and he stumbles, laughing, “Alright, shut up, I’m getting there,” she shrugs the t-shirt on closer again, “At work we pick one day a month to celebrate everyone on the floor’s birthday at the same time. Everyone has to bring in food, it’s a whole big thing, and it’s absolutely dreadful.”

“What? That sounds so sweet!”

“Everyone thinks they’re ‘MasterChef’ bakers but almost all of its inedible and so instead of eating I have to make awkward small talk,” MJ complains, “Plus, birthdays are so obnoxious, the bright streamers and the singing: nope. Not for me.”  
“Well then how would you prefer to celebrate your birthday, Miss No Fun?”

“I don’t know,” MJ ponders, her eyebrows scrunched in thought, “Probably watch my neighbor’s ceiling collapse then drag him out of the building to eat French fries and grilled cheese.”

Three steps from the door to the apartment building, Peter stops walking, mouth agape. He points between MJ and the street behind him, not forming any words. Did she just—

“Is today your _birthday_?”

“As of, uh, three hours ago, yes.”

MJ takes the remaining three steps that Peter can’t take and starts into the lobby.

“MJ, are you serious? It’s your birthday? I can’t—what—why didn’t you tell me?” Peter shakes his head and runs after her catching the door before it shuts.

“I told you, I don’t really like birthdays. Well, really just my birthday.”

“But how did I not even know when it was?” he yells, “I definitely have asked you before.”

“Yeah, but I’ve gotten really good at avoiding answering it and you do this stupid cute face whenever I talk for longer than 30-seconds that makes it look like you’re absolutely incapable of comprehending anything I’m saying. So that helps,” she giggles, “I know you’re against it but can we please take the elevator? I’m tired. Also, it’s my birthday, so we should do whatever I say.”

“I can’t believe you—” Peter hums frustrated, because this is _totally_ a thing MJ would do and it’s just like her to spring it on him on tonight of all nights. He stands next to her as she waits for the elevator, “Happy birthday.”

“Thanks, loser,” she nods down at him.

“This is awful.”

“Why? I’m having a good night.”

“Because, now I don’t have a birthday gift for you! And I’m totally unprepared!”

“Why do I feel like you’re the type of guy who would plan a whole elaborate thing for my birthday, like a cheesy treasure hunt through all the special places in our lives and it ends on a rooftop under the stars,” MJ steps into the elevator and Peter follows.

“Would you like that?”

“No, oh my god, please don’t do that!”

“Well, I can’t now because you gave me no warning that today is your birthday!”

“Look, my birthday was never special growing up, and I don’t expect it to all of a sudden become special. There’s nothing worth celebrating,” she shrugs at Peter.

“I can’t believe you’re so anti-birthday! Birthdays are literally my favorite days.”

“Why am I not surprised?” The doors open and they step out, start walking down their long hallway, shoulders pressed together.

“I bet if you experienced a Peter Parker birthday extravaganza you’d think differently.”

“Why is that a thing?” she drawls.

“It never was a thing, but I’m inventing it right now,” Peter smiles up at her, “We are going to celebrate your 27th and 7 days birthday and make you believe in birthdays again.

“27th and 7 days?”

“Well, obviously the extravaganza cannot happen today, on your actual birthday, since I’ve just found out about it. So next Friday.”

“Oh my god,” she laughs.

“I’m serious, Em, tell your boss tomorrow you’re gonna be out next Friday because we are going big, and staying home.”

“You’re the worst.”

“For the best day of the year… The day MJ turns 27 and 7 days.”

“This is my nightmare, truly, a nightmare.”

But her smile kind of says she agrees so now Peter has one week to come up with something impressive for the MJ birthday extravaganza. It seemed like a great idea at the time, but now… yeah, he’s totally screwed.

“I won’t mention your birthday again until next Friday, swear it,” Peter says, backs up to his door when they reach the end of the hallway.

“Where are you going?” MJ answers him with a questioning look instead.

“Uh, to sleep,” he points back at his door.

“I told you, you’re not sleeping in there, c’mon,” and for the third time that night, she grabs his hand and pulls him towards her door, one hand already unlocking it.

“What—wait—MJ, I—”

But he’s already got one foot in her door and no strength left to process the fact that MJ is making him stay over her place for the night.

Holy shit.

They’ve never done this before, like, he’s stayed on her couch super late and fallen asleep for a hot sec, but he’s always left and gone back to his own place. He visits her at all hours of the night, could be the first person he sees in the morning, but he’s never slept over. And suddenly, despite his constant inner monologue, this all feels like a really, really big deal.

Because he’s Peter Parker and it’s 3 am on MJ’s birthday and he’s sitting with his back against one arm of her couch and his feet crisscrossed and overlapped with hers in the middle, her head tucked to her shoulder in the corner, eyes already shut because it’s 3 am and she’s tired and didn’t feel like fighting with Peter over being too gentlemanly to take her bed.

And his t-shirt? Still wrapped around her, hugged to her sides.

He doesn’t think he’ll ever ask for it back.

* * *

So here’s the thing about living with MJ.

1: that he’s living with her in the first place, because that’s the weirdest sentence he’s ever put together in his life. Turns out the pipes from the bathroom of the apartment above him burst and the water damage wrecked the plaster ceiling and caused it to break, right on Peter’s couch. Peter was assured facilities would cover the leak until they could get it properly fixed within the next few days, so Peter went back to his apartment after work that night, only to discover their temporary solution was a thin clear plastic that looked like a garbage bag taped over the hole. He sent a picture to MJ because he thought it was hilarious, but she wasn’t laughing.

It is seriously cool to watch MJ yell at people. Very ‘may I speak to your manager’ of her, and totally badass, when she yells over the phone, standing under the makeshift plastic bag cover, and soon, Peter is promised that the leak and the ceiling will be repaired in one week. Peter starts to thank her and head for his room, but she just throws a bag at him and tells him to grab some stuff for the week.

That leads him to point number 2: anything he brings over is immediately fair game.

The morning after the diner and birthday bombshell (and before the MJ sasses the people in the lobby in order to get his ceiling fixed thing), Peter wakes up from the most glorious 4 hours of sleep he’s ever gotten and practically rolls off MJ’s couch to find her standing in her kitchen. She yelled a good morning, told him she had to leave early to pick up something for that ‘horrific work birthday celebration’, but she felt bad so she went across the hall and grabbed him work clothes and left a tea for him on the counter and she’d see him tonight.

Then her door slammed shut behind her and Peter felt like throwing up. That was the most wonderfully, sickeningly sweet thing he has ever seen MJ do and he didn’t even have time to process it properly! She! What! On her birthday!

So he folded his sweatpants and black t-shirt neatly in a pile and left them on his side of the couch and took a swig of tea before running out of the apartment, 20 minutes late thanks to the fact that he had to text Betty long strings of incoherent letters and then painstakingly translate them.

So now, it’s 6 pm and MJ’s called about his plastic bag ceiling and he’s collected some clothes and things and _what do you bring over to the girl you’re in love with’s apartment?_ When he makes it over there, the small room is empty. Peter bends to greet MJ’s dog, looks around, and hears the water running on the other side of the room. She’s in the shower. Awesome.

Peter fidgets, pacing around the apartment because _what do you do when you’re standing in the girl you’re in love with’s apartment_ with absolutely nothing to do other than obsess over the fact that there’s a girl you’re in love with and you have no idea how to play that off.

So he tries to make busy, hanging up his fancy work clothes on hangers and starting to boil water for tea because MJ would probably like tea now and scanning the names of every book on her tall bookshelf and then contemplating changing into sweatpants now or waiting for the bathroom to be open.

Peter doesn’t know how much longer she’ll be and his dress pants for work are awfully uncomfortable so he walks over to the couch to grab his sweatpants from last night, and is going to just close the door to her bedroom and quickly change in there.

The plan would have worked if he could find his sweatpants.

He knows he was really tired this morning, so he could have misremembered where he left them, but he’s pretty sure it was the corner of the couch, and yet—nowhere to be seen. He paced every inch of this apartment, and is considering doing so again, because his black t-shirt is here but not his gray sweatpants and he _has_ to be going crazy.

“Are you hungry?”

And then he finds them, he finds the sweatpants. They are on MJ. She’s wearing them.

His brain forgets what thoughts are for a split second, gaping at his favorite sweatpants on his favorite girl and then he stutters, “Ah, no I’m good. You?”

“Well, I wish I could say I was stuffed with delicious office birthday treats, but alas,” she places one hand on her stomach, looking down, “My stomach is a barren wasteland. I’m gonna order a pizza, you’ll be hungry when it gets here.” She walks out from the small bedroom-bathroom nook and crosses the room to the kitchen. She points to the tea kettle then looks back at Peter, still crouched by the couch, “You making tea?”

“I brought some of that rose petal one you like.”

“You hate rose petal tea,” she quirks.

“But you like it.”

“I thought I said no birthday crap,” she waves, turning around, “No drinking tea you hate just because it’s my birthday.”

“It’s not a birthday thing!” Peter yells, walking to meet her in the small kitchen, still choking back rapid-fire heart attacks just looking at her in his sweatpants, “It’s a uh… A thank you for letting me crash your apartment while mine falls apart, thing.”

“Specific,” she hums with an eye roll.  
“And also, you said no birthday stuff until next Friday.”

“I keep hoping you’ll forget that happened,” she laughs, “And I hope you know you’re welcome here as long as you need. I highly doubt they’ll actually fix that mess in a week and you should not be living in that until they do.”

“It’s not that bad in there.”

“It’s awful, if I were you I would have moved out of here a long time ago.”

“Really?”

“I’m mad about all the problems that apartment has caused you and it’s not even me. I would have sued and used the money for a much nicer place the first time your shower exploded.”

“Suing sounds terrifying.”  
“Yeah, that’s because you’re way too nice, Parker,” MJ chuckles, “Honestly, you’re too good for this dirt cheap, broken down place.”

“You live here too, you know.”

“Yeah, but I’m all alone and I’ve never had any of the malfunctions you put up with.”

“It’s really nice you’re concerned, but I promise it’s not that bad.”

“I don’t like it, you don’t know what kind of stuff is falling out of that ceiling hole,” MJ huffs, “At least promise you’ll stay for a week. A full week.”

Living with MJ for a full week? Shut up. Like, for real, it’s not the ceiling he’s afraid of, it’s the living in such close proximity to MJ that he’s terrified of. What if he does something horrible like impulsively kiss her? How do you come back from that?

But his internal battle is silenced when the kettle starts ringing and he sighs, “Sure, yeah. One week.”

“Thank you,” MJ smiles, “Now go grab some chamomile tea for yourself.”

And so, Peter ignores the sweatpants for the rest of the night, or tries his hardest too. They spend the next day lazily around her apartment, and Peter boils it down to a total mistake, a one-time thing that she stole the sweatpants, because night 2 she wears her own pajamas, and throws his sweatpants in her own drawer, like she thought they were hers. A mix-up he’s sure, she genuinely must have just grabbed his from the couch thinking they were her own and that’s that. No big deal.

So now it’s Sunday, and Peter has plans to see this new movie with Ned and resists the overwhelming urge to invite MJ along with them because Ned still doesn’t know she exists and he can’t be on the other end of that kind of wrath today, not after the emotionally overloaded weekend he’s already had. So he waves her goodbye, leaving his apartment mid-afternoon, like this is a normal, domestic couple-y thing they do often, and heads out to try to focus on sci-fi and not pretty girls (er, _girl_ ).

The movie is awesome and he plays off only mildly stuffing his face with popcorn with Ned by using the lame excuse that he just ate lunch before he got there (when in reality, he knew MJ was cooking dinner for when he got home and he’s so whipped already that he’s actually turning down the best part of going to the movies just to be able to enjoy it. Gross.)

Ned tells Peter on the walk home that he’s getting dinner with Betty’s parents on Wednesday night, who still don’t know they’re buying a new place together (but Peter can’t yell about lying because well, MJ), and asks to borrow one of Peter’s really nice ties. Peter obviously says yes, and tells him to just stop by on Wednesday after work and pick whatever one he wants. He decides he’ll figure out what to do about the ‘not living in his place at the moment’ thing at a later time, but for now, hugs him goodbye and parts ways with a spring in his step.

He gets back to MJ’s a few minutes later, uses her spare key to let himself in and greet the dog that runs to his feet.

“Hey, how was your movie?” MJ stands at the kitchen stove, head turned to face Peter while she stirs a pot.

“Good, it was good,” Peter sighs, petting Spidey then looking up to MJ and _shit_.

“Is that my shirt?” he says, standing up.

“Oh, yeah, I didn’t wanna get any of mine dirty when I was cooking,” she shrugs.

So, not a coincidence. Not a mix up. Not nothing at all. She wanted to wear his clothes. _Shit_.

“But mine could?”

“Well, these puns are already embarrassing,” she says, “A splash of sauce is not going to make it any worse.”

“I really like that shirt,” he pouts, stepping to her side to lean his elbows on the counter next to her. “That smells really good,” he points to the pot.

“So does your shirt,” she smiles, “I think I’m gonna have to steal a few more.”

And she wasn’t kidding. 99% of the time that MJ sounds serious, she’s actually joking, messing around with Peter just to giggle a minute later when he realizes. So, sue him, for thinking this was one of those times.

Apparently, he found the 1%, because Monday he gets home from work late and find her in one of his black hoodies, and Tuesday she’s taken hostage a second pair of sweatpants that she pairs with the original t-shirt from the previous Friday night.

He wakes up Wednesday ready to hide and lock up all the clothing he brought over, not because he really minded MJ taking his stuff, but because, he actually really _liked_ MJ taking his stuff. And she could not know that.

He plays it cool most of the time, waits until she turns her back to him to openly gape and squirm and panic because she looks _really good_ in his oversized gray sweatpants. But it’s getting to be a lot for his boyish brain to handle.

Wednesday afternoon he suddenly remembers the promise he made to Ned about borrowing a tie, so as he runs home from work early he calls Betty.

“Parker, you’re getting close to owing me your first-born son here.”

“I’m sorry, Betty I love you so much, you know that right?”

“Save it, what do you need today, lover boy?”

“I promised Ned he could come pick up a tie to wear to dinner tonight.”

“Right…” Betty drawls, on the other end of the line.

“Right, and I’m not exactly living in my place at the moment because workers are coming in and out trying to fix my ceiling all week.”

“Oh my god, that’s such a lame excuse to play house with your girlfriend.”

“It’s not an excuse! I swear,” he yells, “But Ned can’t come pick it up because then he’d see 1- that I’m living with MJ and 2- he’d see MJ, period.”  
“You’re hopeless, but unfortunately, I support it so much,” she says, “Am I saying you were on my way home from work?”

“Perfect, yes, thank you. MJ usually showers after work, so I’ll text you to come up then and she’ll miss you completely.”

“I can be there in an hour.”

“You’re the best Betty!”

“As long as I’m not the only one on your side invited to the wedding, Parker, I will keep your mystery crush a secret as long as your little heart desires.”

So now Peter is fidgeting around MJ’s apartment again, frantically texting Betty to come up to the apartment now because MJ went in the shower 10 minutes ago and the window of opportunity is closing.

There’s a clock on the wall next to the door that ticks too loudly for comfort as Peter agonizes over this horrible scheme he’s trying to pull off. He finally hears a knock on the door and rushes it open for Betty.

“I’m sorry I’m late, I got lost and then—”

“No worries,” Peter says, holding out three ties to her, “Some options, take them all.”

“Oh this one’s really nice,” Betty takes one out of Peter’s hand.

“Thanks, Aunt May bought it for me when—”

“Hey, Peter, where did you move those sweatpants I stole the other night—ah, hello.”

Peter whips around at the sound of a voice behind him, and is 100% certain he audibly gasps.

Because MJ walks out wearing one of white t-shirts.

That’s it.

T-shirt.

And nothing else.

Cool. Cool cool. This is totally. Cool.

Think cool thoughts Peter, _girl you’re in love with half naked in front of you with your best friend’s girlfriend behind you._

“Hey, MJ,” Betty beams, a little wave from the hand holding the tie.

MJ purses her lips and claps her hands together in front of her, “Right, hi…” Her eyes dart between Betty and Peter, feeling a little clued out of the situation occurring in her doorway.

Peter steps to the side, still propping the door open, and mouths the name ‘Betty’ to MJ, who sighs with a smile, “Betty, yes, hi.”

“Oh my god I just realized how creepy that sounded,” Betty whispers to Peter, “I’m not supposed to know who she is.”

“MJ this is uh, Betty—” Peter starts, but MJ points and cuts him off.

“No, no, this is Betty. Like, Betty and Ned, right?”

“Wow, I feel famous,” she giggles, “And unrelated, but, that shirt looks way better on you than it does on Peter.”

Peter turns bright red and contemplates slamming the door into his head.

“Oh yeah?” MJ laughs with the joke, turns to both sides, shrugging like she’s checking out a fancy gown in the mirror of a dressing room, “I thought so too, but Peter won’t let me keep it.”

“Really?” Betty’s eyes grow wide when she looks over at Peter, “It’s the least he could do after you so offered to let him stay here, which was really nice of you by the way.”

“Eh, wouldn’t be my first choice for a roommate, but my dog likes him so…” MJ pulls down the bottom hem of the shirt, “Guess he’s a keeper.”

“Peter, if you don’t make a move—”

“Okay, don’t you have a dinner to get to?” Peter yells, throwing one hand over Betty’s blabbermouth, his own face still burning.

“But I would much rather stay here,” Betty mumbles behind his hand, and MJ laughs, “MJ, it was really nice to meet you. Peter never shuts up about you.”

“This has been the most embarrassing 2 minutes of my life.”

“You too, Betty. Have a nice dinner,” MJ waves, and Peter turns to push his guest out the door.

Betty lets her jaw drop in an overwhelming smirk as soon as Peter blocks her from MJ’s view.

“Dude! She is so much hotter than you said!” she whispers.

“Goodbye, Betty.”

“And she literally could not be any more clear about how badly she wants to make out with you!”

“What?!” Peter shrieks, then lowers his voice to a whisper, “She doesn’t—and I don’t even—”

“You can’t tell me you don’t wanna kiss that girl.”

“Yes, but—”

“But you’re Peter Parker and you also have feelings,” Betty rolls her eyes affectionately, “God, does it ever get tiring being the world’s most precious boy?”

“Utterly exhausting.”

“She also has feelings, I promise.”

Peter smirks and pushes her out further, “Good luck tonight.”

“Yeah thanks, I may or may not be disowned and need to move into your apartment after tonight’s discussion, but from the looks of it, it’s newly vacant so that shouldn’t be a problem.”

Peter waves her down the hallway before turning back to face MJ, who stands with her hands crossed over her chest, laughing lightly at the dumb expression written all over Peter’s face because it’s still a shock to see his Michelle wearing nothing but his old, white t-shirt.

His life is so normal, yet so, ridiculous.

If she doesn’t put sweatpants on soon he’s going to have a very hard time refraining from making-out with feelings immediately.

“I’ll go get those sweatpants now.”

* * *

Peter has surrendered his entire wardrobe when the last day of his week at MJ’s arrives. This day also happens to be MJ’s 27 and 7-day’s birthday, so admittedly, sweatpants are low on the list of things to freak out about.

He’s been adamant about not stealing MJ’s bed from her the entire week, and she lost energy to fight him on it after about 20 minutes of pouting, so he wakes up early enough to tiptoe around her kitchen before she’s awake to start his ‘very minimally planned out because he was too nervous about it’ birthday plans.

 

Step one is breakfast.

MJ, he understands, is exactly the type of person who would hate getting woken up, which he wants to honor, and plans to, only it makes everything 10 times harder. Will she wake up at 8? 12? 6 am like a mad man because she’s so nervous about what Peter’s planned?

Luckily, Spidey the dog is on his side, because at 8:03 exactly, he nudges MJ’s door open and runs inside. Peter hears some blankets rustle, which he takes as his cue.

“Hey, what’s up?” Peter says, peeking one head around the doorframe to MJ’s bedroom.

“Shouldn’t I be asking you that?” she says, her voice still a little sleepy with a yawn at the end.

Peter holds back from launching himself at her in a full-force cuddle tackle because he underestimated how cute she’d look rubbing her eyes awake (he’s so gone, it’s sickening.)

“You know, I heard, that someone in this apartment is turning 27 and 7 days old today…”

“Gee, I wonder who that could be?” She quirks her head to the side, petting Spidey who is curled up in the blankets next to her.

“I think it’s the girl with the party hat on her head.”

“The what—I don’t have—”

Peter steps into the room and pulls a cardboard, cone-shaped party hat out from behind his back and snaps the small elastic under MJ’s chin, against her squealing protests.

“Ah, there she is, the birthday girl!”

“I hate this already.”

“C’mon, I made breakfast!”

“ _You made breakfast?_ ” MJ asks, “You never cook. I always make breakfast.”

“You’re not doing anything today, well—not nothing, like you’ll be doing things, just now, you know, not boring things like making breakfast.”  
“No offense Parker, but I don’t wanna start off my birthday getting poisoned by your lackluster culinary skills.”

“Oh my god, MJ, it’s pancakes, I can handle that!” Peter huffs, sitting on the edge of her bed, “But if it makes you feel better, we’re eating out the rest of the day.”

“Oh fantastic,” MJ pulls the blanket off and stands from her bed, “What kind of pancakes?”

“With rainbow sprinkles in them.”

 

Step two is tea. Not a normal portion of the birthday equation but again, it’s MJ, so adjustments must be made.

Once they finish the pancakes which MJ won’t admit are good and so fun to look at even though she eats all of them and thinks she takes a picture that Peter doesn’t notice, they get dressed and head out of the building.

Peter tries to ignore the swoop in his stomach when he notices that she’s wearing one of his shirts under a denim jacket.

“Where are we going?”

“Are you going to ask these questions all day?”  
“Are you going to answer any of them?”

“No.”

“Then no, I will not ask these questions all day.”

Peter was not expecting that.

“Seriously?”

“Seriously, I agreed to your day of fun so I might as well suck it up and follow along. Plus, I assume you’re paying for all my food today so I better be nice.”

Peter laughs and has them cross the street.

“But I’m sorry, I can’t help this one,” MJ stares at him, puzzled, “Are we walking to your office? Because it feels a lot like we’re walking in the direction of work.”

“Why would I bring you to work on your birthday?”

“Well, technically we did go to work on my actual birthday—”

“But I’m considering this your actual birthday, and I would never bring you to work on your actual birthday,” Peter grabs one of her hands in the mass of people on the corner of one street, then pulls them to his right, and stops outside of…

“The tea place?”

“I figured you’d be cranky all day no matter what, but tea could help me out a little,” Peter smiles up at her, “Though, this train of thought occurred without knowing you were going to be so agreeable just now.”

“I never say no to tea, no matter the motive,” she squeezes his hand before walking inside.

“Morning, Beatrice,” MJ says, waving to the old woman at the desk (that Peter’s lowkey still afraid of).

“Good morning Michelle, happy birthday.”

MJ looks from Beatrice back around to Peter, who shrugs before starting down an aisle of tea bags.

MJ follows him, mouth hanging, “Oh my god, did you talk to Beatrice? Alone? Without me? And didn’t pee your pants?”

“Shut up,” Peter says, “I had to tell her we were coming and offer to pick up 10 pounds of cat food for her cats, which, I was right, she has three of, in order to arrange _this_ …”

Peter stops them in front of a small shelf of tea and points to the label in front of a row of tea bags.

Michelle squints and leans to read the small label, then gasps and looks up at Peter, who smiles proudly.

_MJ’s Tea of the Day_

“What is this?”

“Beatrice was telling me a few week ago that whenever people come in and ask for recommendations, she just tells them whatever you bought last,” Peter says, MJ still mesmerized by the neat and shiny label, running a finger over it, “My original idea was to get a tea named after you but, I sent 6 emails to tea companies and got no responses so I figured, now you can have tons of teas named after you,” he smiles, “Plus, Beatrice was all for it because now it makes her already mindless job of giving people recommendations that much easier. Just point them to _MJ’s_ _Tea of the Day._ ”

“You’re crazy, you know that?”

“MJ, it’s only 10 am. My crazy is just getting started.”

MJ smirks between him and the row of tea, “Did you really think a major tea manufacturer was going to name a flavor of tea after some random girl?”

“It was worth a shot,” he shrugs.

“Damn, you picked good, Parker, lavender chamomile,” she pulls out two bags from the stack and hands them to Peter, “Go get Beatrice to make us these, I’m gonna scope out my next tea pick of the day,” she giggles and runs down the opposite aisle.

 

So with steps one and two successful, Peter moves onto phase 3: fun outing.

“How did you know I love the MoMA?” MJ says, standing outside its entrance.

“You’ve been here before?” Peter cries, totally deflated.

“It’s one of the most popular museums in the city, everyone’s been here.”  
“Seriously?” Peter squints up at the sign on the entrance and turns back to MJ, “I thought I was picking out some really unique art museum trip.”

“You’ve _never_ been here before?”

Peter shakes his head. This was just wonderful news, he was so ready to wow her. He knew she liked art, so he thought a museum would be a great idea. He honest to god knew nothing about any art, or any museums, but when he saw the ‘Starry Night’ advertised on the Museum of Modern Art’s website, and it was the first picture he recognized in his entire search, he knew that meant this had to be a really, really famous painting. And that made it seem exclusive, important, and he was totally ready to impress MJ by bringing her to _the_ museum with such a famous painting.

All went to shit though, when he found out the famous painting was in a famous museum, and she’s already seen it in person dozens of times.

“Stop pouting, did you not hear me? I love it here, I don’t mind,” MJ says, and starts walking towards the entrance, “It would be an honor to take your MoMA virginity on my fake birthday.”

So that’s how Peter ends up following MJ like a lost puppy through this giant and overwhelming museum. He still feels awful because now she’s the one doing the navigating and explaining when it’s supposed to be him because it’s his day, but a few rooms in, Peter notices she genuinely enjoys it.

Of course, MJ’s perfect birthday would include a segment of explaining art history to her clueless neighbor. He honestly should have known it.

“I really like this one,” MJ stops them in front of a painting, that to Peter, looks like nothing more than blurry red paint with a shark fin through the middle.

“Yeah,” he nods, trying not to let on his confusion, “It’s interesting.”

MJ turns her head to look at Peter, the corner of her lips tilted up in a smile.

“What’s your favorite part?” She teases, knowing probably just how lost he is.

Peter rocks up on his toes and leans forward to get a closer look, try to bs some intelligent response, “Um, I really like… the use of the color red.”

“Not bad, one time I started writing a whole paper on how there was only one person in the painting done in red and how symbolic that was, but then I noticed all these people up here,” MJ narrates, pointing to the top right corner.

“There’s people in this?” Peter leans closer, eyebrows furrowed, “Holy shit, yeah, there’s people!”

She laughs and leans back, watching him examine the picture in awe, “It’s called ‘The City Rises’.”

“Because they’re like, building the city.”

“Sure,” she nods.

“Wow, there’s so many things going on here,” he shakes his head, eyes roaming the painting, “They’re all moving this way,” Peter points, “Do you think they’re leaving something?”

“Or going to find something.”

“Woah.”

“I know, pretty cool right?” She smiles as he steps back in line with her, “I know another one you’ll like.”

“There’s more of these?”

So she pulls them through a few more rooms, and with Peter’s interest piqued answers a lot more questions than she bargained for.

(“How is this in a museum?” “It’s a really talked about piece, what statements it makes about society.” “It’s a white square on a white canvas, MJ, I could paint that.”) (“This, to me, looks like the visual representation of chamomile tea.” “That’s one of the best opinions you’ve had all day and I somehow think Monet would like that comparison.”) (“How does that work?” “It’s surrealism, Peter, it’s not supposed to work.” “But if they’re in love why do they need to kiss with bags on their heads?” “Have you never kissed someone with a bag on your head?” “Why do you ask that like you _have?_ ”) (“I am having an oddly pleasant reaction to this one and can’t explain why.” “Are you going to say you could paint this one too?” “No, this one’s way more complex, it’s yellow, red, _and_ blue squares. And I like it a lot for absolutely no reason.”)

“Can I bring you to a painting now?”

“Do you know any paintings?” MJ smirks, wandering a small hallway.

“I do, for your information. It’s the only reason I brought you here today,” Peter says, and felling bold looking into her eyes that rival some of the greatest pieces of art he’s ever seen surrounding him, he slips his fingers between hers and pulls her, hand in hand, out of the room.

MJ looks down at their interlocked hands as they walk, and Peter panics for a second thinking she’s going to drop them, but she just smiles at him again and says, “After pancakes this morning, I didn’t peg you as a waffles guy.”

“What?”

“Waffles, that’s how you’re holding my hand right now.”

“Oh, right,” Peter nods nervously, because it’s one thing to boldly hold MJ’s hand an entirely different thing to talk about holding it, makes his insides twist, “I’ve never thought about it before.”

“It’s the superior way to hold hands, so don’t worry you did good,” she says, “Even makes your sweaty hands seem cute.”

“I thought I wasn’t cute?”

“No you are, very. The ways that I think you’re cute aren’t objective.”

“Really?”

“Yeah, because I’m the only one holding your hand right now.”

Peter tables the discussion on how cute he is according to MJ when they finally step in front of his piece.

“How did I know you were bringing me here?”

“C’mon, this is beautiful,” Peter pushes them in front of a few people to get closer to the painting, Van Gogh’s ‘Starry Night’, “Plus, the fact that I recognized it has to mean it’s really famous. And it has its own security guard! Super important!”

“I personally like some of his other stuff better. This is just the most mainstream one so everyone thinks it’s his best.”

“Stop being so intelligent for once and just appreciate the over-hyped beauty. Look at it!” Peter himself is mesmerized by the swirling blues and yellows, the way it feels like a dance or an ocean or a flowing dress and it’s dark, it’s night but it feels kind of joyful. MJ would probably have a lot of more profound things to say about it, but it just makes Peter happy, and it’s really cool to see something like that with his own two eyes.

He kind of feels MJ staring at him instead of the picture, a little smile on her face, so he turns over to look at her too, “You know, if they ever get around to fixing my ceiling, I think I’d like it to look like this.”

“Like a Van Gogh painting?”

“Yeah, wouldn’t that be so cool?” Peter looks up to the ceiling, and closes his eyes to imagine, “Getting ready to fall asleep and seeing stars all over your ceiling?” He sighs and turns back to the painting, “We never see stars in the city, so think of how nice it would be not just to see stars every night, but _these_ stars.”

“You’ve got taste, Parker,” MJ nods.

“If I’m gonna fall asleep in that crappy apartment, I might as well be looking at something beautiful.”

It’s an ironic moment to get stuck in MJ’s eyes.

“Oh shit, is that the time?” Peter looks down at his phone, “We’ve been in here that long?”

“And we could stay for another few hours, easily.”

“No, no, we’re off schedule!” Peter ‘waffles’ her hand and leads them out of the room, “Those soup cans made me hungry. Dinner sound good now, birthday girl?”

“Lead the way.”

 

So logically, the next step is dinner, and it goes well. Peter found this place where the walls were covered in greenery and plants, like a little botanical garden in the middle of the city. MJ loved it, and took at least 42 embarrassing pictures of Peter in front of different plants. But she was giggling, and forgets basic social skills when he hears that, so he lets it happen.

 

Step five had originally been planned for before dinner but because they stayed at the museum for a while longer than he anticipated, he moves it to their walk home. He maps out the long way so they’re out long enough to see the sun set behind a little park.

“What’s this game called?”

“Birthday genie,” Peter says, pushing his hands in his pockets, “One year when I was still little, my Aunt May forgot to buy candles for my birthday cake. And I was devasted because I didn’t know how I’d get to make a wish without candles to blow out.”

“Of course.”

“So, she said without candles, I could get 3 wishes instead of one. From the birthday genie.”

“You fell for that?”

“Yeah, well, I was 7 and my standards were low,” Peter watches MJ laugh as they continue to walk, “And then every year after that, May would grant me any 3 rapid-fire wishes I wanted. It was a lot harder when I had to do her wishes, but she usually got lame and made one of them ‘a hug from my favorite nephew’.”

“So I get three wishes.”

“Within reason. That are attainable within the next hour.”

“Okay, I think I like this part of the birthday extravaganza,” she nods, hums in thought for a moment, “Chocolate milkshakes form Dee’s diner.”

“Done,” Peter claps his hands together.

“What? Seriously? It’s like, 10 blocks in the opposite direction!”

“Yeah, I figured that would be one of the wishes so I picked two up last night and they’re in the freezer at home.”

“You’re kidding.”

“Dead serious,” Peter smiles as MJ turns, jaw-dropped in shock, “Next wish.”

“Well I thought I’d have 10 blocks to think about it,” MJ laughs.

“Rapid fire wishes, MJ!”

“Okay, okay, okay,” she bumps her shoulder with his, “Uh, okay. For my second wish I’d like them to fix your stupid ceiling.”

“I said attainable within the next hour!”

MJ groans and takes one step closer to Peter. Noted. Has no idea what to do with the information, but still, noted. And now he’s going to over analyze every breath he takes walking so close to her.

“Well if they’re not gonna fix it I figured the all-powerful birthday genie should be able to.”

“It’s not my birthday, it’s yours,” Peter smiles, “Don’t waste your birthday wishes on me.”

“It’s not a waste. I am fiercely protective over you, Parker, and knowing you’re not going to spontaneously die of head trauma makes me happy.”

Fiercely protective _has_ to mean _in love with you_ in some language, Peter’s sure. So he takes it as a win.

“I’m fine, promise,” Peter gets really busy knotting his fingers together nervously, then smiles up at MJ lightly, “C’mon, anything you want. Except my clothes because you already stole all of those.”

“Oh, great idea! That old blue t-shirt you have, I want it.”

“That’s literally the only shirt I have left that you haven’t touched.”

“I wanna round out my complete collection,” MJ smirks and Peter’s glare, “It’s my _birthday…_ ”

“You owe me an entire new wardrobe.”

* * *

Coming up on the end of the 12-hour period MJ promised to partake in Peter’s birthday plans finds them both leaning over MJ’s sink trying to haphazardly drink chocolate milkshakes.

Getting them ahead of time seemed like a wonderful idea at the time that Peter really pat himself on the back for, but when he pulled the 2 to-go cups out of the freezer, the milkshake had solidified into something frozen solid.

He had not accounted for this at all, but MJ, in a better mood than she’s ever been in, assures him it’ll be fine and sticks her 7 little birthday candles from the dollar store in the top of her frozen milkshake.

MJ squeals and covers her ears throughout the entirety of Peter’s awful rendition of happy birthday, then blows out the tiny candles in one short breath. (“Do I get wishes for this too?” “MJ, I literally have no t-shirts left I don’t know what more you want from me.”)

Still laughing, and very impatient for her milkshake to un-freeze, MJ assures Peter they can just put their cups in the microwave for a second and melt it a little.

Now, let it be made clear: Peter should never be allowed to make executive decisions when MJ is laughing. He has to concentrate at least three quarters of his will power on watching her eyes, at least another eighth on committing the sound to memory, and whatever tiny, itty bit is left he can use for adult-world decision-making.

And that itty bit decides whatever MJ suggested was a fine idea.

Something pops in the microwave after 13 seconds and when MJ screams and opens the door, their tall to-go cups are oozing milky liquid chocolate out the top and down the sides.

But birthday girl would never let a Miss Dee chocolate shake go to waste, so that’s how Peter ends up pressed close against MJ’s side, leaning over her sink to catch all the milkshake falling off their cups.

“This was the worst idea you’ve ever had!” Peter laughs.

“Can’t be my worst when I’ve let you live here for a week,” MJ smirks, laughing and slurping a sip of milkshake.

“I think this is worse,” Peter pulls his straw out and winces as more chocolate drips over his fingers, “Though, it still tastes good, which is kind of freaking me out.”

“They work magic in that diner, I swear!” MJ starts, but when she tries to mimic Peter and tips her head back to drop the melted shake into her mouth, she almost misses and squeals before pitching back towards the sink.

“Scream one octave higher and Spidey’s literally going to beg for a new owner.”

“You can have him,” she squirms dipping her straw into Peter’s cup and slurping, “Wait, yours tastes better, switch.”

“What, no! You can’t have—”

“It’s my birthday…”

“I’ve created a monster,” Peter sighs in defeat and grabs MJ’s cup from her.

“Thank you,” she quips, smiles and sips contentedly. Melted shake drips off the bottom of her cup and hits the sink at a pace almost as quick as Peter’s heartbeat. _Almost._

“You know,” she starts again, pulling the cup up and peaking under it, “This one tastes better, but, I think there’s a leak in the bottom of your cup.”

“Tragic, should have kept your own,” Peter barely bats an eyelash, stirs his/MJ’s cup in his hands.

“No, I’m serious, I—ah!” And it does, indeed leak out the bottom. Out the bottom of the cup and right onto MJ’s/his shirt.

“No!” Peter tires to yell, but it comes out mostly as an echo of MJ’s deep laugh, “I loved that shirt!”

“Oh you’re right, my second wish, c’mon!” MJ drops her cup in the sink, the frothy liquid splashing on them even more and pulls Peter behind her from the kitchen to the bedroom.

Oh.

_Oh._

It’s a bedroom, that’s all, they’re going into her bedroom holding hands, and – is he 12? This is not a big deal, this is not—

“Where’s my wish shirt?” MJ crosses her arms over her stomach, grabs the bottom hem of her shirt and pulls it over her head.

_Oh._

Peter can’t turn fast enough, “Uh, over here, somewhere,” he chokes, squats to search for the shirt in question in his makeshift pile of clothes. He instinctively throws a hand over his eyes while he’s at it. For good measure. Can never be too careful.

“Here,” he finds the shirt and tosses it over his shoulder.

“Remind me to thank Aunt May for inventing birthday genie.”

There’s 0% of Peter’s sanity left in the room, but he finds a way to stand up again and turn around. The shirt’s big, loose around her neck and falls to the side, but its free of microwaved milkshake stains.

“Looks good on you.”

“Thanks.”

“Sure.”

Peter desperately wants to be out of this bedroom.

“C’mon let’s map out your ‘Starry Night’ ceiling,” MJ hops around the edge of the small bed before sitting on it, her back against the headboard.

Not getting out of the bedroom.

“ _What_ are we doing?” he sighs, moving to sit down next to her.

“I’d paint your starry night ceiling for you,” she says, “I’m probably not allowed, but after all the shit they’ve put you through in 335B, I’m willing to risk it. They owe _you_ not the other way around.”

“You paint?”

“I used to like to sketch a lot,” she smirks up at the ceiling, “Don’t have much time for that anymore.”

“That’s really cool. I have no artistic talent whatsoever.”

“No musical talent either.”

“Shut up,” Peter pouts, but MJ giggles under her breath.

“So I’m thinking,” MJ grabs one of Peter’s hands and pints their arms up to the right corner of the ceiling, “The big crescent moon goes there.”

“And stars all around it.”

“Right,” MJ nods, “We could put those yellow brush strokes around the lights in the ceiling too.”  
“Oh my god, do they make glow in the dark paint?”

“Probably.”

“Saving that for _my_ birthday wish.”

“I think I still have one of those left…”

“Didn’t you use it when you traded our milkshakes?” Peter quips.

“That was in the milkshake category so it’s still a part of wish number 1.”

“Better think of something before your 27 years and 7 days birthday ends,” Peter crosses his feet at the end of the bed, folds his hands across his stomach.

“This has been the longest 12 hours of my life.”

“Sorry.”

“I didn’t say that was a bad thing,” MJ turns her chin towards Peter, her lips turned up in a shy smile.

Kind of glad he didn’t chicken out and leave the bedroom yet.

Spidey-dog pitter patters into the room then, and jumps up onto the bed and sits by Peter’s feet.

“Someone’s playing favorites again,” MJ grimaces at her dog, nuzzled up next to Peter.

“Did you ever teach him how to turn the lights off?”

MJ laughs lightly, bites her bottom lip, “Unfortunately not.”

“How can he be the friendly neighborhood Spider-Dog if he can’t even turn the lights off?”

“I can use my last birthday wish to make you get up from this very comfortable position on my bed to turn them off for us.”

Peter rubs the sweat off his palms onto his pants, a nervous laugh, “Yeah, sure. It’s late, I should be leaving soon any way.”

MJ purses her lips together, takes a deep breath, “Okay then I’ve got it. My third wish.”

“No cutting my hair,” Peter laughs.

“Stay here.”

Peter had every intention of sticking to his one week promise of staying here. If there’s anything his full day of MJ taught him is that it gets increasingly more difficult to _not_ fall in love with her when in immediate proximity. What qualifies as immediate proximity, you ask? Great question! Peter would say, for example, holding her hand while sitting in her bed and being asked to stay the night. Pretty immediate.

But it was her wish. And who was he to deny her the all-powerful birthday genie?

“Okay, sure,” he says calmly, moves to grab sweatpants and head to his usual spot on the couch.

But he’s stopped, pulled back by one hand on his forearm.

“No, I mean, really. Stay _here._ ”

“Oh,” Peter gasps lightly.

No room for thoughts, just his feet swinging back up on the bed.

Not getting out of the bedroom.

He’ll unpack this later.

For right now, it’s all MJ’s curls nestled into the crook of his neck, her head on his shoulder, one hand on his lap, her toes knocking against his.

“So, what do we think of birthdays now? We like them?”

“Just Peter Parker birthdays.”

“Emphasis on the Peter Parker,” Peter nods proudly.

“Correct,” MJ smiles, “Kind of a fan of him in general.”

And Peter takes back everything he said about starts being the most beautiful thing to fall asleep looking at. Sitting next to MJ, his eyelids heavy and her feet tucked around his, he’s sure not even Van Gogh would argue the stars could beat this view.

 

 

_5\. Your toothpaste_

 

Considering Peter never in a million years imagined he’d fall asleep cuddled into the most wonderful person he’s ever met, you’d guess all shock would have been worn out by the time he wakes up and sees a text from his Aunt May telling him to bring his girlfriend to dinner.

And yet. The shock threatens a trip to the emergency room for heart failure.

He runs out of bed and speed dials Aunt May to clear some things up immediately.

“Good morning, Peter.”

“My _what?_ ”

“You got my text, I assume.”

“ _Who_ am I supposed to bring to dinner tonight?” Peter yells, into the phone, then winces at the room behind him, bracing a hand on the kitchen counter, and lowers to a whisper, “I don’t have a girlfriend.”

“I don’t know what you think she is, but she is exactly what us normal people call a girlfriend!”

“Who?”

“Don’t play dumb, Peter, you know exactly who I am talking about,” May says, annoyed, over the end of the phone, “Pretty girl across the hall. Though, I should correct that now probably to pretty girl in the same room as you.”

“Oh my god, do you have a hidden camera following me?”

“She told me about your living arrangement herself.”

“She _what_?”

“Can you stop melodramatically repeating me?” Peter runs a hand through his hair as May laughs before continuing, “I went to go buy you some tea from that place you were telling me and Ned about a few months ago, and I happened to bump into this lovely girl, and we started talking.”

“No.”

“Yes, I looked absolutely lost, and she asked if I needed help getting something. So, I explained how I was looking for something to surprise my sweet nephew but couldn’t remember the name, and when she recommended rose petals, I turned it down because, you know, I remembered you said you didn’t like it.”

“Can this story end soon?”

“Now, this is the good part. So she says, ‘wow, my friend Peter hates rose tea too. Weird because it’s my favorite.’ And I was like, huh, must be the name because my nephew’s Peter as well.’ And then I wish you could have seen the smile on this girls face.”

“I can picture it.”

“She said ‘this might sound crazy but are you Aunt May’? And you can imagine my shock when I had to explain to her that my nephew made up some wacky story about a weird tea cleanse with a coworker just to avoid telling me about his friend across the hall.”

This was just the news he wanted to hear this morning. It almost explains why he’s thought MJ’s been acting weird lately, kinda like, she might be into him too. His Aunt probably went and confessed his love for her.

“Aunt May, what did you say to her?”

“Nothing! She thought it was funny honestly, said it was totally something you’d do,” May laughs lightly, “Promised to keep letting you believe the secret and well, I ran into her a few more times. She’s really wonderful, Peter.”

“Is this why she’s coming to dinner tonight?”

“Well, when I saw MJ’s Tea of the Day this morning I really had enough of this. She’s your girlfriend. You’re the only one who doesn’t think so.”

“She doesn’t think so.”

“Yes, she does!”

“What? Did she say that?”

“No, but I’m a smart woman, Peter. I used to look at boys the way she lights up telling me about you,” Peter feels his cheeks turn bright red, “You know when I get really Aunt-proud and gush about you? Picture that— times 12 when MJ talks about you.”

A beat passes while Peter thinks about it. “She’s not my girlfriend.”

“She should be,” May says, “Dinner tonight at 7, I’ll text you the address.”

“I hate this, just for the record.”

“And I love you.”

“Yeah, yeah, love you more.”

Peter clicks the phone shut.

“Everything okay out here?”

He turns up at the sound of her voice, “Yeah, uh,” he coughs, looks at MJ, still in his t-shirt, yawning, her hair all messed up, and thinks yes, Aunt May, _she should be_. “How do you feel about getting dinner with my aunt tonight?”

* * *

“Why do you look like you’re about to pass out?”

“I’m not—I don’t—” Peter chokes out, walking down a busy city street on the way to dinner, MJ in tow.

“It’s just dinner, all you have to do is eat free food your aunt buys for you.”

“Yeah, and deal with her interrogation,” Peter looks up at MJ, “I’m still mad about that whole thing, by the way.”

“You’re the one who kept me a secret for absolutely no reason!” MJ laughs, “Your aunt is so nice, has great taste in tea, and I think, happens to like me a lot.”

“Great to know,” Peter deadpans, “All that means is she’ll ask you the easy questions and me the grilling ones.”

“You are the most dramatic boy I have ever met,” MJ scoffs again, turns to look him in the eye as they walk, “How about this—I’ll sit across from you, and every time you think you get an unfair question, you can kick my leg under the table as payback.”

“That sounds like aggressive footsies.”

“It is exactly aggressive footsies. Just avoid my shins,” MJ waves her hands down and Peter smirks.

“I’m not going to kick you while we’re sitting at dinner with Aunt May.”

“Suit yourself,” MJ shrugs, “Can’t wait to watch you squirm under the dusky mood lighting and ambiguous restaurant music.”

After another minute or two, MJ and Peter arrive outside the front of the restaurant and are immediately greeted by a beaming Aunt May.

“Peter, did you iron your shirt?” May smiles, impressed, as way of greeting her nephew before squishing him in a hug.

“Do you think he ironed his own shirt?” MJ laughs behind them, and it makes May drop her grip and turn to the woman of the hour.

“You just keep getting better and better,” May says, arms outstretched, “Hi, sweetie.”

“Hi May, nice to see you again.”

“Do you see now, why I thought this was a bad idea?” Peter huffs, “I’m not going to get credit for anything responsible I do ever again.”

“Don’t be mad, your cheeks get all red when you do,” May pats a gentle hand on the side of Peter’s face. He glares. “Okay, it’s cold, so why don’t you wait out here for Ned—”

“Ned is coming?”

“And Betty, obviously. I gave them the address but it’s hard to find so just be on the lookout for them. MJ and I will go sit inside.”

MJ smiles at May and starts to follow her inside, leaving Peter alone outside, his jaw slack and eyes wide, but not without turning to wink at him once before shutting the door behind her.

Peter groans, his head thrown back, and starts to pace in front of the building. This was exactly what he needed tonight. Aunt May was foreseeably brutal but Ned? Honestly, a wild card.

The only reason Peter never told anyone about MJ was because he himself didn’t really know what to tell them she was. He couldn’t even figure out what to think about her in his own head let alone make it all make sense to other people.

But about 5-minutes into his mid-twenties crisis, Peter doesn’t have any more time to make it make sense because striding up to him are Ned and Betty.

“Hey, dude. Nice shirt,” Ned claps Peter’s hand together in their quick hand shake, Betty behind him. “Where’s May?”

“Listen, about that,” Peter flops both his hands on top of his head, elbows out, and takes a deep breath, “There’s something I need to tell you before we can go inside.”

“Woah, do you need a kidney or something? I have 2 of those, you can—” Ned starts, concerned.

“No, no, not that serious, but also, like… _serious._ ”

Ned’s brows furrow in confusion and Betty tilts her head in worry as well. Peter is just working up the courage to spit it out when Ned’s eyes flit up over Peter’s shoulder and squint at something behind him.

“Hey, who’s May sitting with?”

Peter turns to follow Ned’s line of sight and makes out a loud “Oh my GOD!” from Betty behind him.

“That’s MJ, she’s having dinner with us.”

“Who’s—”

“You’re kidding me!” Betty yells again, finding the whole situation funnier than Peter thinks it should be, “You finally manned up and asked her out?”

“You did _what_?” Ned gasps.

“No, no,” Peter lets his head fall into one of his hands, “I did not do that and I’m not going to do that.”

“She’s your girlfriend?” Ned asks, eyes wide.

“Does everyone here have selective hearing?” Peter yelps, exasperated. “She’s just a friend, she lives across the hall from me.”

“I feel like you’re leaving out something here…”

“He’s leaving out the fact that he wants her to be more than a friend,” Betty stage-whispers to Ned, eyeing Peter.

“Wait a minute, Betty knew about this before I did?” Ned yells, “Dude, bro code!”

“Yes, _bro code_ ,” Betty points between herself and Peter, “He confided in me and no matter how much I love you, bro code is bro code.”

“Say bro code one more time…” Ned glares.

“Bro code,” Betty mumbles under her breath and Ned yells.

“Okay, look, I’m really sorry. I never meant to not tell you, Ned,” Peter pleads, “Betty just happened to be right there when it happened—”

“When what happened?”

“When he met MJ.”

“Wait—wasn’t that months ago?” Ned asks, eyes wide at Peter, “You’ve been dating her for months?!”

“Again, we’re not dating—”

“They are.”

“No we’re—”

“I’m mad at Betty right now but I’m still going to believe her over you.”

“Oh my god,” Peter sighs, shakes his head, “First, please don’t be mad at Betty, she’s been very helpful.”

“You know, it’s all starting to make sense,” Ned nods towards his girlfriend, “I knew you didn’t work anywhere near Peter’s new apartment.”

“And second,” Peter shakes his hands out in front of him, “We need to all be really cool about this right now.”

“Oh my god, you’re in love!” Ned yells, a smile taking over his face, “Don’t even try to deny it. No matter what you two say about being bros, I am still your best friend and I know these things.”

And well, Peter could deny dating allegations because, that was true, but being in love with her? Guilty as charged.

“Can I get a quick recap on the situation before we go in?” Ned beams, looking back over at May and MJ, seating at a table by the front window.

Peter starts to say, “Not much to recap” just as Betty overlaps with, “We could talk about them for _hours_.”

“Okay, abridged version:” Betty starts, “Peter had been crushing on pretty mystery neighbor, so I told him to buy her flowers. They became friends, were practically attached at the hip for months, and now Peter is struggling to keep his mouth shut about how in love with her he is any time they’re together. Which is all the time, since he’s been sleeping on her couch while they fix the ceiling of his apartment.”

“Holy shit, dude!”

“I know, I know, I’m screwed,” Peter paces again, “And now Aunt May’s on the ‘let’s make Peter talk about his feelings for MJ’ committee so I’m double screwed.”

“Triple screwed, she looks _way_ out of your league, man.”

“Thanks for the vote of confidence, Ned.”

“How did yesterday go?” Betty asks.

“So here’s the thing,” Peter winces, “I may or may not have stayed over again,” a beat, “And slept in her bed.”

“You _what_?”

“Get it, Peter!”

“Nothing happened, it just, was a lot to handle,” Peter runs a hand through his messy hair, “And you said it yourself, she’s way out of my league. I’d be an idiot to think any of it meant anything.”

“You’d be an idiot to _not_ think that,” Betty says, “I don’t let random guys sleep in my bed.”

“I sleep in Betty’s bed.”

“And we’re dating.”

“I know, I just,” Peter fists his hands at his side, “I just need some tangible proof that I can make a move. Not just everyone telling me they _know_ because of some weird sixth sense.”

“What’s the worst that could happen if you make a move without tangible evidence?”

“He gets kicked out and has to sleep in his public health hazard of an apartment,” Ned wagers.

“Exactly,” Peter waves in agreement.

“Surefire sign of a relationship is when you have your own toothbrush at their place,” Betty says.

“That doesn’t count, I already brought my own toothbrush there.”

“Then the next logical step would be toothpaste,” Ned laughs.

“Toothpaste?”

“Sometimes I question my life choices,” Betty mumbles, dropping her head into her hands.

“Look, now that I’m in on the secret, I will do everything I can to get you to the love of your life.”

“No, no, do not do everything you can,” Peter yells, “Be really normal tonight. Not yourselves, just normal.”

“Peter, I have seen that girl wearing nothing but your old high school t-shirt. We’re past normal.”

“You saw _what_?”

* * *

They get inside the restaurant and settle into the table with May and MJ.

Introductions go about as well as Peter expected, Ned elbows Peter and says “Nice work,” when he spots MJ and Betty turns red when May asks where she’s met MJ before.

After they order food, things, again, go about as smoothly as peter anticipated. He buzzes in his seat the entire night, afraid of every twist and turn the conversation makes.

He’s honestly thankful when the topic shifts to Ned and Betty’s new apartment they’re getting, which gives Peter the chance to zone out for a hot sec.

He half-registers Betty say something about packing picture frames, or maybe Ned was talking about moving vans? All he knows is he’s barely tuned in when something hits the side of his shoe.

Peter’s eyes widen and bit, but he ignores it, probably just imagining it, and tires to listen to his friends again.

But then the tap comes again, a little harder, and right on his ankle. He looks to his side, and finds MJ looking intently at Betty, but an unmistakable smirk on the corner of her lips.

And so, Peter kicks back.

Nothing too aggressive, like he’d been promised, just a little tap so she’d know he was paying attention.

MJ’s leg swings past Peter’s brushes the side and bumps the front of his shoe. Peter sends a side-swing back, his heel hitting hers. He tries to cover most of his face by leaning it into a hand on the table, his smile and blush impossible to ignore if anyone was just as rude as him and not paying attention to Betty, still speaking.

They continue back and forth for a few minutes, stepping on each other’s toes and going for kill when they kick forbidden shins, and Peter is honestly good and dead to the world all while it happens.

And luckily, MJ is much better at multitasking, because she’s cued back into the conversation and answers without missing a beat, “No, I’ve lived in this same apartment since graduation.”

She stops swinging when she speaks, but maybe it’s not such a bad thing, Peter thinks, because she drops her foot wrapped right around the back of his ankle.

“I’m glad it’s been working out for you, because Peter’s apartment is a mess,” May laughs.

MJ turns to Peter now, smiles lightly and shrugs, “Yeah, it’s not the nicest, but it’s home.”

Dinner lasts a good while longer, and Peter’s antsy anxiety only mildly settles down. No one embarrasses him that badly, at least not to the point of no return, and no one says the g-word.

So, even with baby Peter stories brought up that MJ will without a doubt use for ammo for the foreseeable future, all in all it’s a win.

May, Ned, and Betty make and exit to the right of the restaurant and Peter and MJ are headed left, so there’s quick hugs goodbye all around before departing. Ned reminds Peter to call him if there’s any toothpaste development, but in case there’s not, he totally saw that footsie situation and would consider that tangible proof enough to marry the girl.

A few blocks out from home, MJ smiles at Peter, “I think I wanna steal your family from you.”

“They’re all yours,” Peter chuckles, “I’ve put up with their crazy for long enough.”

“They just love you a lot, it’s sweet,” MJ looks down at her feet, “Having something like that is really special.”

Peter bumps his shoulder into hers, “I’m willing to share.”

“All I can give you in return is my dog.”

“And your diner friends, who love me.”

“Fair trades, I’d say,” MJ giggles.

“Hey, you know, I was promised _aggressive_ footsies, that was mild tonight, at best.”

“No one was really being mean to you!”

“So, you just wanted to kick me?”

MJ bites her bottom lip in a smile and tilts her head, “Eh, something like that.”

Peter reaches for the door to the apartment building and lets MJ in, who wiggles her eyebrows at his chivalry, then leads them to the elevator.

Peter steps in behind MJ just before the doors close, and she turns her head towards him and says, “Hey, before you come over, could we stop at your place for a second. I just remembered: we’re out of toothpaste. I meant to make us stop to pick some up on the way home but got distracted by your good looks. You have some, right?”

Oh, you’ve _got_ to be kidding.

Universe, Peter is giving you all the middle fingers he could possibly give you right now.

“Toothpaste?” Peter echoes, his voice small.

“Uh, yeah, you know that minty thing you use to brush your teeth,” MJ quips as the doors open up, “Ever heard of it?”

“Yeah, yeah, I just—you want _mine_?”

“Do you have a weird phobia of sharing toothpaste that I don’t know about?”

Holy shit, he’s gonna pass out. Every cell in his body feels like the microwaved birthday milkshake.

“No, I uh—”

“Look, it’s not a big deal, I was just asking. We could squeeze another use out of mine,” MJ laughs, a few steps from the end of the hallway, staring directly at that hideously awful potted plant. “You okay, Parker?” She pats a hand on his pale forehead, “If it’s food poisoning you can sleep in the hallway. No throw up on my bed.”

“it’s not food poisoning.”

“Then what is it?” She asks, in a way Peter is sure is meant jokingly, but all it does is pull at his heart and make him squint hard and yell:

“I think I might be in love with you.”

Who would have guessed, after 6 months of endless pining, it would be a fucking tube of toothpaste to do him in?

He would really like to stand under his still broken ceiling and have it fall on him right now. Repeatedly.

Peter times it just right so that he stops in front of his door, facing the awful leafy plant, with MJ on his right, her hands in her pocket.

It’s quiet for too long, even if it’s just a few seconds, and Peter wishes he’d had the will power to hold out long enough to do this a little more romantically, so at least he’d get rejected looking at something other than his least favorite potted plant to ever exist (Seriously, he has no right to be this mad at a potted plant, and yet, he’s currently seething in anger.)

The light above them flickers once, twice, and then:

“That’s really great to hear, since I _am_ in love with you.”

Lessons you should never take from Peter Parker: how to react when the girl you’re in love with just confessed she’s in love with you.

“I’ll go get the toothpaste.”

Peter shuffles under his feet and unlocks his door faster than he ever has, slams it shut behind him, and yells up to the gaping hole in the ceiling, “MJ is in love with me!”

He strides quickly past his couch, past his bedroom, into the bathroom to grab the toothpaste all while the reality sets in again.

 _MJ is in love with him_.

MJ, Michelle Jones, pretty mystery neighbor who hates his hair and named her dog Spider-Man and steals his t-shirts and made him start drinking tea, is _in love with him._

Holy shit.

Spider bite kind of takes a back seat in top ten craziest things to happen to Peter Parker.

This is objectively, very very very insane.

And what did Peter do about it? Did he say he loves her too? Hold her hand? Gaze into her eyes? Kiss her like he’s been dying to ever since she poked him with an umbrella?

No, he choked on his own spit and went to get fucking toothpaste.

Unbelievable.

So, he does the only constant in his life: Call Betty about an MJ crisis.

“Miss us already?”

“MJ is in love with me.”

Peter has to pull the phone away from his ear because of Betty’s scream, and soon hears her run to get Ned, “Give a girl some warning next time, Parker! Holy shit!”

“I know.”

“What? How? Why? Tell me everything right now. Also, Ned’s on speakerphone, say hi.”

“DUDE!”

“I KNOW!”

“I don’t wanna say this is because of me, but is it a coincidence that this happens the same day you tell me about her?” Ned says.

“We could have saved a lot of time if you picked up dinner that night,” Betty squeals.

“What are you guys doing now? What happened? When’s the wedding?”

“I’m calling you from my apartment bathroom because she ran out of toothpaste and asked for mine.”

Ned dies on the other end of the line, hysterical.

“Why are you thinking about toothpaste when you could be making out with her?”

“Because I’m me! And when she said she was in love with me I panicked and ran into my apartment and am in desperate need of coaching right now.”

“Why would you do that?!” Betty yells.

“I told you, I don’t know! It’s really hard to think when I’m around her,” Peter sighs, his hands on his bathroom sink, “She makes my mind all fuzzy and now I ran away and she probably thinks I hate her and I’m going to be living on May’s couch for the rest of my life.”

“Then just go back over and tell her exactly that,” Ned says, his laughter over the _toothpaste_ irony still evident, “Just tell her how your mind goes completely blank when you’re with her _because_ you’re so in love with her. Girls love that stuff.”

“I’m actually 90% sure you used that on me,” Betty muses.

“And look how well it worked!”

“Guys, seriously, what do I do?”

“We just told you, it’s easy,” Betty says, “She loves you, you love her, lock the dog in the bedroom and make out on her couch.”

“And bring the toothpaste.”

“I hate this,” Peter drops his head, “I’m so bad at this.”

“Peter Parker, I said once it in that little take-out Thai place and I’ll say it again right now,” Betty says sternly, “You have more charm in your little finger than all of New York has combined. I knew she’d love you then, and you can’t deny it now.”

“Okay, I concede, Betty and Peter are the best bros,” Ned adds.

“Girl talk now: MJ’s not the elusive idea you’ve been afraid of this whole time and been talking yourself out of. She’s just the girl that lives across the hall that wants you to kiss her. So please,” Betty says quietly, “Hang up the phone and don’t call me back until you’ve _at least_ kissed her.”

“Hopefully more,” Ned adds, cheekily.

“Okay I’m gonna do it,” Peter steadies himself, grabs the toothpaste and heads for his door, “Just walk in a kiss her?”

“I would say something first.”

“But don’t try to be cheesy or sentimental or anything, just say you love her and go.”

“Okay, okay, I can do this,” Peter sighs, shakily, and hangs up the phone to yells of encouragement, sticks the toothpaste and his phone in a pocket and heads across the hall to 335A.

Only problem is, a dramatic entrance to profess your love would be so much cooler if he had his key to her apartment.

He settles for knocking and squeezing his hands to prevent himself from hiding behind the plant.

After a moment, the door opens, and MJ peeks her head from behind it.

“Hey,” she smiles.

“I got the toothpaste,” Peter gulps, pulls the small blue tube out from behind him and holds it up to show her.

“Thanks, I—”

“Also, I’m in love with you,” Peter spits out in one breath, looking at his feet. He tries to pull his eyes up to hers, then continues, “I don’t just _think_ I’m love with you. I am. Confirmed. Totally. 100%. You. Me. In love with you,” He nods quickly, nervously, “Just thought you should know.

“Cool,” she nods back.

“I’m gonna kiss you now.”

“Okay.”

Peter closes his eyes, leans forwards and—kisses MJ on the cheek.

Honestly, it’s a better delivery than he was expecting, his nerves through the roof and his confidence absolutely shot.

MJ’s lips kind of pop open in a little ‘o’ shape, then, before peter can crawl beneath the floorboards, her face explodes in an effervescent grin that lights the hallway better than their crappy overhead lighting ever could.

“You missed, loser.”

And she throws her arms around his neck, the door falling shut behind her and smashes her lips against his.

Peter’s kissed a few people in his lifetime, all 26 years and some odd days of it, and he’s sure MJ must have too in her 27 and 8 days on earth.

But standing here, kissing MJ, he feels like he’s having his first kiss all over again, bubbly and new and kind of messy because he can’t stop smiling every time her lips move and she has to swallow his laughter and flutter her eyelashes on his cheek like she knows she was put on this earth to absolutely wreck Peter Parker and she’s very proud of that fact.

There’s nothing really close to what it feels like to be kissing MJ, just a lot of things Peter knows it’s better than.

It’s better than his crappy apartment and that ugly potted plant and rainy days you’re late to work and old white socks you lose. It’s better than late night pizza orders in stolen sweatshirts, better than the feeling you get when a text pops up on your phone the exact minute you were thinking of sending one, better than rose petal tea and jasmine tea and lemongrass tea and chamomile tea. It’s better than take-out Monday on the hallway floor, better than chocolate milkshakes and midnight French fries. It’s better than a call from Aunt May or sloppy kisses from Spidey.

It’s better than knowing MJ’s in love with Peter Parker.

Because she is.

And that’s a cool thing he’ll get to play on loop inside his head every second he thinks about kissing her again and again just to find more things that kissing her is better than.

He lost his fucking mind living in that crappy apartment, and he found it right across the hall.

Peter rests his forehead against hers, notices for the first time that her heart is beating just as fast as his.

“Do you want to go on a date with me?”

“Pretty sure we’ve been doing that for a while.”

MJ’s giggle when she says it is the only competition for things better than kissing her.

There’s a beat before she opens her eyes, and it’s her turn to ask, “Do you wanna move in with me?”

“Pretty sure we’ve been doing that for a while too.”  
MJ knots her fingers in his long, messy hair, but doesn’t say a word about it. Just softly threads, smiles lightly, sighs.

“Hey, Parker? I love you.”

“Right back atcha,” Peter nods.

“I just want you to know that before I tell you…” she pulls her face just inches away from his, “In all the excitement, I think I locked us out of my apartment.”

And that’s the last night Peter Parker lives and loses and anything in 335B. Anything of importance resides happily in 335A.

 

 

_So that’s the important stuff, but you really should be on the lookout for anything and everything you could lose. You never really know what could go missing._

_I will have to send an updated list of things I lose in 335A now that I’ve been here for a few months. Phone charger is the first thing that comes to mind here, and all the regulars still apply (keys, wallet, ice cream spoons, guard shoes with your life if you ever consider a dog, and put a tracker on the TV remote)._

_You and Betty are going to be the most supremely awesome couple to ever move into a brand-new apartment with a guest room together. MJ politely asks if we can be the first ones to use it._

_If we’re not invited over for the first take-out Monday this friendship is over and I never liked that white hat from senior year of high school. But if we are invited, I loved that hat :-)_

_You’re gonna kill it in the adult world, and no matter what, we’ve always got the bro code, me, you and Betty._

 

_Love you,_

_Peter_

 

 

 

Peter drops his pen and folds up the scribbled-on sheet of paper, tucks it into the envelope sitting on the small kitchen table.

“You done writing that novel yet?”

“Very funny,” Peter deadpans, licking the envelope closed and smoothing it down.

“You spaced out after you wrote every line,” MJ, no longer pretty mystery neighbor but now pretty roommate and girlfriend (!!!), tips her head over one arm of the couch to squint at him behind her.

“I was just thinking.”

“About what?”

“Lots of stuff,” Peter shrugs, crossing the room until he reaches the couch, “Mostly you.”

“You’re the worst, you know that?”

“I know,” he smiles, kisses MJ’s forehead before standing up again and heading for the door, “C’mon we’re gonna be late to the party.”

“We wouldn’t be almost late if you weren’t thinking about me instead of writing a card for Ned,” MJ stands too, goes to grab a jacket from the hook by the door, “You have the gift?”

“May’s bringing it, I’m just in charge of the card.”

“And you left it to the last minute,”: she shakes her head, “You stupidly brilliant boy.”

“Emphasis on the brilliant,” Peter quirks, and MJ swats him out the door.

“See you later, Spidey,” she calls over her shoulder, Peter waving to the dog and closing the door. MJ looks at the door across the hall with a little laugh, “Do you think they ever fixed that hellhole?”

“Absolutely not,” Peter says, seriously, which makes MJ laugh again, “We should just let Spidey run around in there instead of taking him on walks. I still have the key.”

“Letting my dog shit in the shitty apartment? I am an awful influence on you Parker.”

“I’m telling anyone who comes to look at that apartment to rent it to get away while they still can.”

“It didn’t work out so bad for you,” MJ shrugs, bumping her shoulder against his.

“It would only work out for them if they fall in love with the pretty girl across the hall,” Peter winces, “And I’m kinda hoping that doesn’t happen.”

“Oh really?” MJ hums, “You think I’m pretty?”

“You’re objectively pretty.”

“I regret teaching you big words like objectively.”

MJ sighs as they step into the hall’s elevator, a fight Peter has long since stopped fighting.

She looks over at Peter and asks, “Why didn’t we have a housewarming party?”

“Because we didn’t but a new apartment.”

“Yeah, but you moved in with me,” MJ says, “You could have a party and get cool free stuff like pots and dishtowels.”

“Just what I always wanted,” Peter smiles, “Besides, you hate parties.”

“Birthday parties, except for of the Peter Parker variety.”

“So you’d like Peter Parker to throw a party for Peter Parker moving into your apartment, and the only person invited is… Peter Parker.”

“Sounds perfect.”

“Em, that’s literally just me coming over to your apartment, which, I live in.”

“I don’t see the problem,” she quips, “So tonight? When we get home? Party, me and you?”

The doors to the elevator slide open and Peter follows MJ out. He takes about three steps into the building lobby before—

“You’ve _got_ to be kidding me.”

Peter stands face to face with a fancy floor-to-ceiling window view of torrential downpour hitting the city streets.

MJ’s laugh echoes through the lobby and pulls Peter by the hand back to the stairs.

“Should we go get your umbrella? Or mine?”

**Author's Note:**

> art pieces from the moma scene:
> 
> the city rises by umberto boccioni  
> white on white by kazimir malevich  
> water lillies by claude monet  
> the lovers by rene magritte  
> broadway boogie-woogie by piet mondrian  
> the starry night by vincent van gogh


End file.
